The Mime

3rd typescript, September 1932, II.1§5 draft level 3

MS missing Draft details

It darkles, all this our (3fun nominal funnominal3) world. Yon marshpond is visited by the tide. We are circumveiloped by obscuritas. Man and beast are chill. There is a wish on them to be not doing or anything. Or just for rugs. Where is our highly honourworthy
{f10, 193}
salutable spousegenitrice? The foolish one of the family is within. Her he, where's he? To house, to house. Nought stirs in spinney. (3|shThe swayful pathways of the dragonfly spider stay still in|3) Quiet takes back her folded fields. In deerhaven, imbraced, alleged, injoynted and unlatched, the birds, tommelise too, quail silent. Was even ere awhile. Now conticinium. The time of lying together will come and the wildering of the night till cockeedoodle aubens Aurore. No chare of beagles, frantling of peacocks, no muzzing of the camel, smuttering of apes. Lights, pageboy, lights! When otter leaps in outer parts then Yul remembers May. Her hung maid mohns are bluming, look, to greet those loes on coast of amethyst; arcglow's seafire siemens lure and warnerforth's hookercrookers. And now the fisheens in Liffeyetti's bowl have stopped squiggling about feriaquintaism, and if Lubbernabohore laid his wizard's ear to the ribber he would not hear a flip flap in all Finnyland. Witchmam, what of your night? It goes. It does not go. Darkpark's acoo with sucking loves. Rosimund's by her wishing well. Soon tempt-in-twos will stroll at venture and hunt-by-threes strut musketeering. / But meetings mate not as forsehn. Hesperons! And if you wand to Livmouth, wenderer, here lurks no iron welcome. Bing. Bong. Bangbong. Thunderation! Were you Marely quean of scuts or but Christien the Last here's dapplebellied mugs and troublebedded rooms and sawdust strown in expectoration. Mr Knight, tuntapster, buttles; his alefru's up to his hip. And Watsy Lyke sees after all rinsings and don't omiss Kate, homeswab homely, put in with the bricks. A's the sign and one's the number. So who over comes ever for whoopee week must put up with the Jug and Chambers.

But heed! Our thirty minutes war's alull. All's quiet on the felled of Gorey. Housefather calls enthreateningly. Annsighosa looks in her potstill to see at the sop be sodden enough and to hear to all the bubbles besaying: the coming man, the future woman, the food that is to build, what he with fifteen years will do, the ring in her mouth of joyous guard, stars astir and stirabout. A plague for hirs, a saucy for hers and ladlelike spoons for the wonner. But one and two were never worth. So they must have their final since he's on parole. Et la pau' Leonie has the choice of her lives between Josephinus and Mario-Louis for who is to wear the lily of Bohemey, Florestan, Thaddeus, Hardress or Myles. Ready. Now for la bella. Icy-la Belle.

The campus calls them. Childs will be wilds. And vamp, vamp, vamp, the girls are merchand. For these are not on terms, they twain, since their baffle of Whatalose when Adam Leftos and the devil took our hindmost, gegifting her with his painapple, nor will not be atoned at all in fight to no finish, that dark deed doer, this wellwilled wooer, Jarkoff and Eatsoup, Yem or Yan, while felixed is who culpas does and harm's worth healing and Brune is bad friendsch for Jour d'Anno. Tiggers and tuggers, they're all for tenzones. For she must walk out. And it must be with who? Elsethere is danger of. Solitude.