Difference between revisions of "Page 112"
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on normalcy: she knows, she just feels she was kind of born to | on normalcy: she knows, she just feels she was kind of born to | ||
lay and love eggs (trust her to [[propagate]] the species and [[hoosh]] | lay and love eggs (trust her to [[propagate]] the species and [[hoosh]] | ||
− | her [[fluffballs]] safe through din and danger!); lastly but mostly, in | + | her [[fluffballs]] safe through [[din]] and danger!); lastly but mostly, in |
her [[genesic]] field it is all game and no [[gammon]]; she is [[ladylike gentlemen|ladylike]] in | her [[genesic]] field it is all game and no [[gammon]]; she is [[ladylike gentlemen|ladylike]] in | ||
everything she does and plays the [[ladylike gentlemen|gentleman's]] part every time. | everything she does and plays the [[ladylike gentlemen|gentleman's]] part every time. |
Revision as of 13:59, 4 August 2006
the farther back we manage to wiggle the more we need the loan of a lens to see as much as the hen saw. Tip. You is feeling like you was lost in the bush, boy? You says: It is a puling sample jungle of woods. You most shouts out: Bethicket me for a stump of a beech if I have the poultriest no- tions what the farest he all means. Gee up, girly! The quad gos- pellers may own the targum but any of the Zingari shoolerim may pick a peck of kindlings yet from the sack of auld hensyne. Lead, kindly fowl! They always did: ask the ages. What bird has done yesterday man may do next year, be it fly, be it moult, be it hatch, be it agreement in the nest. For her socioscientific sense is sound as a bell, sir, her volucrine automutativeness right on normalcy: she knows, she just feels she was kind of born to lay and love eggs (trust her to propagate the species and hoosh her fluffballs safe through din and danger!); lastly but mostly, in her genesic field it is all game and no gammon; she is ladylike in everything she does and plays the gentleman's part every time. Let us auspice it! Yes, before all this has time to end the golden age must return with its vengeance. Man will become dirigible, Ague will be rejuvenated, woman with her ridiculous white bur- den will reach by one step sublime incubation, the manewanting human lioness with her dishorned discipular manram will lie down together publicly flank upon fleece. No, assuredly, they are not justified, those gloompourers who grouse that letters have never been quite their old selves again since that weird weekday in bleak Janiveer (yet how palmy date in a waste's oasis!) when to the shock of both, Biddy Doran looked at literature. And. She may be a mere marcella, this midget madgetcy, Misthress of Arths. But. It is not a hear or say of some anomo- rous letter, signed Toga Girilis, (teasy dear). We have a cop of her fist right against our nosibos. We note the paper with her jotty young watermark: Notre Dame du Bon Marché. And she has a heart of Arin! What lumililts as she fols with her falli- mineers and her nadianods. As a strow will shaw she does the wind blague, recting to show the rudess of a robur curling and shewing the fansaties of a frizette. But how many of her readers