Legend has it w'e're closing in , Mona, working the weakedest think in the harrow. Jill beleaguered by pest and shame open her death wish to his salving not so the narrowing
body of her borne. Within and out the door of what is and what if she sallied.
Like any caretaker mother. Her nervous lip-nibble gave her away. What sort of espionage cinq-a-sept is she? ANyhow? is this the irish telling on the wake her dearing down to felt pen tipping? or is it generosity to a fault? So it whoas, so it go.

Orpheus came home his sleep-room double-backed with his twosome. leg arm
twined and twinned. she was preferred with a thought.