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the freckled forehead. While you'd parse secheressa she hielt her
souff'. But she ruz two feet hire in her aisne aestumation. And
steppes on stilts ever since. That was kissuahealing with bantur
for balm! O, wasn't he the bold priest? And wasn't she the
naughty Livvy? Nautic Naama's now her navn. Two lads in
scoutsch breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Burn
and Wallowme Wade, Lugnaquillia's noblesse pickts, before she
had a hint of a hair at her fanny to hide or a bossom to tempt a
birch canoedler not to mention a bulgic porterhouse barge. And
ere that again, leada, laida, all unraidy, too faint to buoy the
fairiest rider, too frail to flirt with a cygnet's plume, she was licked
by a hound, Chirripa-Chirruta, while poing her pee, pure and
simple, on the spur of the hill in old Kippure, in birdsong and
shearingtime, but first of all, worst of all, the wiggly livvly, she
sideslipped out by a gap in the Devil's glen while Sally her nurse
was sound asleep in a sloot and, feefee fiefie, fell over a spillway
before she found her stride and lay and wriggled in all the stag-
nant black pools of rainy under a fallow coo and she laughed
innocefree with her limbs aloft and a whole drove of maiden
hawthorns blushing and looking askance upon her.
    Drop me the sound of the findhorn's name, Mtu or Mti, som- 
bogger was wisness. And drip me why in the flenders was she
frickled. And trickle me through was she marcellewaved or was
it weirdly a wig she wore. And whitside did they droop their
glows in their florry, aback to wist or affront to sea? In fear to
hear the dear so near or longing loth and loathing longing? Are
you in the swim or are you out? O go in, go on, go an! I mean
about what you know. I know right well what you mean. Rother!
You'd like the coifs and guimpes, snouty, and me to do the
greasy jub on old Veronica's wipers. What am I rancing now
and I'll thank you? Is it a pinny or is it a surplice? Arran, where's
your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the vesdre bene-
diction smell. I can tell from here by their eau de Colo and the
scent of her oder they're Mrs Magrath's. And you ought to have
aird them. They've moist come off her. Creases in silk they
are, not crampton lawn. Baptiste me, father, for she has sinned!