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while the prom beauties sreeked nith their bearers' skins! —— in
a period gown of changeable jade that would robe the wood of
two cardinals' chairs and crush poor Cullen and smother Mac-
Cabe. O blazerskate! Theirs porpor patches! And brahming to
him down the feedchute, with her femtyfyx kinds of fondling
endings, the poother rambling off her nose: Vuggybarney,
Wickerymandy! Hello, ducky, please don't die! Do you know
what she started cheeping after, with a choicey voicey like water-
glucks or Madame Delba to Romeoreszk? You'll never guess.
Tell me. Tell me. Phoebe, dearest, tell, O tell me and I loved you
better nor you knew. And letting on hoon var daft about the warbly
sangs from over holmen: High hellskirt saw ladies hensmoker lily-
hung pigger: and soay and soan and so firth and so forth in a tone
sonora and Oom Bothar below like Bheri-Bheri in his sandy
cloak, so umvolosy, as deaf as a yawn, the stult! Go away! Poor
deef old deary! Yare only teasing! Anna Liv? As chalk is my
judge! And didn't she up in sorgues and go and trot doon and
stand in her douro, puffing her old dudheen, and every shirvant
siligirl or wensum farmerette walking the pilend roads, Sawy,
Fundally, Daery or Maery, Milucre, Awny or Graw, usedn't she
make her a simp or sign to slip inside by the sullyport? You don't
say, the sillypost? Bedouix but I do! Calling them in, one by one
(To Blockbeddum here! Here the Shoebenacaddie!) and legging
a jig or so on the sihl to show them how to shake their benders
and the dainty how to bring to mind the gladdest garments out
of sight and all the way of a maid with a man and making a sort
of a cackling noise like two and a penny or half a crown and hold-
ing up a silliver shiner. Lordy, lordy, did she so? Well, of all the
ones ever I heard! Throwing all the neiss little whores in the
world at him! To inny captured wench you wish of no matter
what sex of pleissful ways two adda tammar a lizzy a lossie to
hug and hab haven in Humpy's apron!
    And what was the wyerye rima she made! Odet! Odet! Tell 
me the trent of it while I'm lathering hail out of Denis Florence
MacCarthy's combies. Rise it, flut ye, pian piena! I'm dying
down off my iodine feet until I lerryn Anna Livia's cushingloo,