flame your halve a bannan in two when I’d run my burning torchlight through (to adore me there and then cease to be? Whatever for, blossoms?) Your hairmejig if you had one. If I am laughing with you? No, lovingest, I’m not so dying to take my rise out of you, adored. Not in the very least. True as God made my Mamaw hiplength modesty coatmawther! It’s only because the rison is I’m only any girl, you lovely fellow of my dreams, and because old somebooby is not a roundabout, my trysting of the tulipies, like that puff pape bucking Daveran assoiling us behinds. What a nerve! He thinks that’s what the vesprey’s for. How vain’s that hope in cleric’s heart Who still pursues th’adult’ rous art, Cocksure that rusty gown of his Will make fair Sue forget his phiz! Tame Schwipps. Blessed Marguerite bosses, I hope they threw away the mould or else we’ll have Ballshossers and Sourdamapplers with their medical assassiations all over the place. But hold hard till I’ve got my latchkey vote and I’ll teach him when to wear what woman callours. On account of the gloss of the gleison Hasaboobrawbees isabeaubel. And because, you pluckless lankaloot, I hate the very thought of the thought of you and because, dearling, of course, adorest, I was always meant for an engindear from the French college, to be musband, nomme d’engien, when we do and contract with encho tencho solver when you are married to reading and writing which pleasebusiness now won’t be long for he’s so loopy on me and I’m so leapy like since the day he carried me from the boat, my saviored of eroes, to the beach and I left on his shoulder one fair hair to guide hand and mind to its softness. Ever so sorry! I beg your pardon, I was listening to every treasuried word I said fell from my dear mot’s tongue otherwise how could I see what you were thinking of our granny? Only I wondered if I threw out my shaving water. Anyway, here’s my arm, pulletneck. Gracefully yours. Move your mouth towards minth, more, preciousest, more on more! To please me, treasure. Don’t be a, I’m not going to! Sh! nothing! A cricri somewhere! Buybuy! I’m fly! Hear, pippy, under the limes. You know bigtree are all against gravstone. They hisshistenency. Garnd ond mand ! So chip chirp chirrup, cigolo, for the lug of Migo! The little passdoor, I go you before, so, and you’re at my apron stage. Shy is him, dovey? Musforget there’s an audience. I have been lost, angel. Cuddle, ye divil ye! It’s our toot-a-toot. Hearhere! Sensation! Let them, their whole four courtships! Let them, Bigbawl and his boosers’ eleven makes twelve territorials. The Old Sot’s Hole that wants wide streets to commission their noisense in, at the Mitchells v. Nicholls. Aves Selvae Acquae Valles! And my waiting twenty classbirds, sitting on their stiles! Let me finger their eurhythmytic. And you’ll see if I’m selfthought. They’re all of them out to please. Wait! In the name of. And all the holly. And some the mistle and it Saint Yves. Hoost! Ahem! There’s Ada, Bett, Celia, Delia, Ena, Fretta, Gilda, Hilda, Ita, Jess, Katty, Lou, (they make me cough as sure as I read them) Mina, Nippa, Opsy, Poll, Queeniee, Ruth, Saucy, Trix, Una, Vela, Wanda, Xenia, Yva, Zulma, Phoebe, Thelma. And Mee! The reformatory boys is goaling in for the church so we’ve all comefeast like the groupsuppers and caught lipsolution from Anty Pravidance under penancies for myrtle sins. When their bride was married all my belles began ti ting. A ring a ring a rosaring! Then everyone will hear of it. Whoses wishes is the farther to my thoughts. But I’ll plant them a poser for their nomanclatter. When they’re out with the daynurse doing Chaperon Mall. Bright pigeons all over the whirrld will fly with my mistletoe message round their loveribboned necks and d crumb of my cake for each chasta dieva. We keeps all and sundry papers. In th’ amourlight, O my darling! No, I swear to you by Fibsburrow churchdome and Sainte Andr‚e’s Undershift, by all I hold secret from my world and in my underworld of nighties and naughties and all the other wonderwearlds! Close your, notmust look! Now open, pet, your lips, pepette, like I used my sweet parted lipsabuss with Dan Holohan of facetious memory taught me after the flannel dance, with the proof of love, up Smock Alley the first night he smelled pouder and I coloured beneath my fan, pipetta mia, when you learned me the linguo to melt. Whowham would have ears like ours, the blackhaired! Do you like that, silenzioso? Are you enjoying, this same little me, my life, my love? Why do you like my whisping? Is it not divinely deluscious? But in’t it bafforyou? Misi misi! Tell me till my thrillme comes! I will not break the seal. I am enjoying it still, I swear I am! Why do you prefer its in these dark nets, if why may ask, my sweetykins? Sh sh! Longears is flying. No, sweetissest, why would that ennoy me? But don’t! You want to be slap well slapped for that. Your delighted lips, love, be careful! Mind my duvetyne dress above all! It’s golded silvy, the newest sextones with princess effect. For Rutland blue’s got out of passion. So, so, my precious ! O, I can see the cost, chare! Don’t tell me! Why, the boy in sheeps’ lane knows that. If I sell whose, dears? Was I sold here’ tears? You mean those conversation lozenges? How awful! The bold shame of me ! I wouldn’t, chickens, not for all the juliettes in the twinkly way! I could snap them when I see them winking at me in bed. I didn’t did so, my intended, or was going to or thinking of. Shshsh! Don’t start like that, you wretch! I thought ye knew all and more, ye aucthor, to explique to ones the significat of their exsystems with your nieu nivulon lead. It’s only another queer fish or other in Brinbrou’s damned old trouchorous river again, Gothewishegoths bless us and spare her! And gibos rest from the bosso ! Excuse me for swearing, love, I swear to the sorrasims on their trons of Uian I didn’t mean to by this alpin armlet! Did you really never in all our cantalang lives speak clothse to a girl’s before? No! Not even to the charmermaid? How marfellows! Of course I believe you, my own dear doting liest, when you tell me. As I’d live to, O, I’d love to! Liss, liss! I muss whiss! Never that ever or I can remember dearstreaming faces, you may go through me! Never in all my whole white life of my matchless and pair. Or ever for bitter be the frucht of this hour! With my whiteness I thee woo and bind my silk breasths I thee bound! Always, Amory, amor andmore! Till always, thou lovest! Shshshsh! So long as the lucksmith. Laughs!

II. If you met on the binge a poor acheseyeld from Ailing, when the tune of his tremble shook shimmy on shin, while his countrary raged in the weak of his wailing, like a rugilant pugilant Lyon O’Lynn; if he maundered in misliness, plaining his plight or, played fox and lice, pricking and dropping hips teeth, or wringing his handcuffs for peace, the blind blighter, praying Dieuf and Domb Nostrums foh thomethinks to eath; if he weapt while he leapt and guffalled quith a quhimper, made cold blood a blue mundy and no bones without flech, taking kiss, kake or kick with a suck, sigh or simper, a diffle to larn and a dibble to lech; if the fain shinner pegged you to shave his immartial, wee skillmustered shoul with his ooh, hoodoodoo ! broking wind that to wiles, woemaid sin he was partial, we don’t think, Jones, we’d care to this evening, would you?

Answer: No, blank ye! So you think I have impulsivism? Did they tell you I am one of the fortysixths? And I suppose you heard I had a wag on my ears? And I suppose they told you too that my roll of life is not natural? But before proceeding to conclusively confute this begging question it would be far fitter for you, if you dare! to hasitate to consult with and consequentially attempt at my disposale of the same dime-cash problem elsewhere naturalistically of course, from the blinkpoint of so eminent a spatialist. From it you will here notice, Schott, upon my for the first remarking you that the sophology of Bitchson while driven as under by a purely dime-dime urge is not without his cashcash characktericksticks, borrowed for its nonce ends from the fiery goodmother Miss Fortune (who the lost time we had the pleasure we have had our little recherch‚ brush with, what, Schott?) and as I further could have told you as brisk as your D.B.C. behaviouristically paillet‚ with a coat of homoid icing which is in reality only a done by chance ridiculisation of the whoo-whoo and where’s hairs theorics of Winestain. To put it all the more plumbsily. The speechform is a mere sorrogate. Whilst the quality and tality (I shall explex what you ought to mean by this with its proper when and where and why and how in the subsequent sentence) are alternativomentally harrogate and arrogate, as the gates may be.

Talis is a word often abused by many passims (I am working out a quantum theory about