we lump down upown our leatherbed and in yours, (I pose you know what she was right and shooting popgims at the navel manuvres! — Hep! Hello there. Bill of old Flinn the Flinter, twig of the first watergasp in your bark and bitter pass. Labbeycliath longs. But we’re molting superstituettes out of their maidens and spitting their heads as if in florileague, drawens up consociately at the Martyr Mrs MacCawley’s, where at the Service of the