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of undiscernibles where the Baxters and the Fleshmans may
they cease to bidivil uns and (but at this poingt though the iron
thrust of his cockspurt start might have prepared us we are well-
nigh stinkpotthered by the mustardpunge in the tailend) this
outandin brown candlestock melt Nolan's into peese! Han var.
Disliken as he was to druriodrama, her wife Langley, the prophet,
and the decentest dozendest short of a frusker whoever stuck his
spickle through his spoke, disappeared, (in which toodooing he
has taken all the French leaves unveilable out of Calomne-
quiller's Pravities) from the sourface of this earth, that austral
plain he had transmaried himself to, so entirely spoorlessly (the
mother of the book with a dustwhisk tabularasing his obliteration
done upon her involucrum) as to tickle the speculative to all but
opine (since the Levey who might have been Langley may have
really been a redivivus of paganinism or a volunteer Vousden)
that the hobo (who possessed a large amount of the humoresque)
had transtuled his funster's latitat to its finsterest interrimost. Bhi
she. Again, if Father San Browne, tea and toaster to that quaint-
esttest of yarnspinners is Padre Don Bruno, treu and troster to
the queen of Iar-Spain, was the reverend, the sodality director,
that eupeptic viceflayer, a barefaced carmelite, to whose palpi-
tating pulpit (which of us but remembers the rarevalent and
hornerable Fratomistor Nawlanmore and Brawne.) sinning society
sirens (see the [Roman Catholic] presspassim) fortunately became
so enthusiastically attached and was an objectionable ass who very
occasionally cockaded a raffles ticket on his hat which he wore all
to one side like the hangle of his pan (if Her Elegance saw him
she'd have the canary!) and was semiprivately convicted of mal-
practices with his hotwashed tableknife (glossing over the cark
in his pocket) that same snob of the dunhill, fully several year-
schaums riper, encountered by the General on that redletter
morning or maynoon jovesday and were they? Fuitfuit.
    When Phishlin Phil wants throws his lip 'tis pholly to be fortune 
flonting and whoever's gone to mix Hotel by the salt say water
there's nix to nothing we can do for he's never again to sea. It
is nebuless an autodidact fact of the commonest that the shape of