You were dreamend, dear. The falled? The Fawdra? Shoo! Here |+is are+| no |+father fathers+| in the room at all. No bad big |+father fathern+|, dear one. Gothgorod father godown fall away |+the lucky load to Lublin+| to make his grossman's bigness. Take that, two piecee big slap slap, bold hinty bottomside pap pap pappa!
— Li ne dormis? S!
— |+S!+| Malbone dormas.
— Kial le krias nokte?
— Parolas infanete. S!
Sonly all in your imagination, dim! |+Your Poor+| little brittle maginations, dim of mind! Shoo to me now, dear! Shoom of me! While elvery stream winds eeling on for to keep this barrel in bounty rolling.
When you're coaching through Lucalizod, on the sulphur spa to visit, it's safer to hit than miss it, stop at the inn. The hammers are telling the cobbles, the pickts are hacking the saxums, it's snugger to burrow abed than ballot on broadway. Tuck in your blank. For it's race pound race the hosties rear all roads to ruin, and layers by lifetimes laid down riches from poormen. Cried onions to chip, saltpetre to strew, gallpitch to drain, stonebread to break. But it's bully to gulp good blueberry pudding. Doze in your warmth. While silvery moonbeams, feeling why, will keep my lilygem gently gleaming.