Tiss! Two pretty mistlelots, ribboned to a tree, up |1stood rose1| liberator and, fancy, they were free! Four witty missywives, winking under hoods, made lasses like lads love maypoleriding dotting
Harold's cross green with tricksome couples, fiftyfifty, their childern's hundred. So childish pence took care of parents' pounds and money made money the way in the world and where rushroads to riches crossed slums of lice and the cause of it all, he forged himself ahead like a blazing urbanorb, brewing trouble to drown
grief, giving and taking mayo and tuam, playing
milliards with three golden balls, making |1his party1| capital out of landed selfinterest, light on a slavey but weighty on the bourse, our hugest commercial emporialist, with his sons booing |1him home1| from afar and his daughters bridling up at his side.