the

nimble

heat

had

long on a certain

taught precarious

holiday

frighteningly

performed

and

at tremont and bromfield i

paused a moment because

on the frying

curb the

quiet face

lay

which had been dorothy

and once

permitted

me for

twenty

iron

men

her common purple

soul

the absurd eyelids sulked

enormous

sobs puckered the foolish

breasts the

droll

mouth

wilted

and not old, harry, a

woman in the crowd

whinnied and a man squeezing her

waist said

the cop's rung for the

wagon but as i was

lifting the horror

of her toylike

head and vainly

tried to

catch one funny

hand opening the hard great

eyes to noone in particular she

gasped almost

loudly

i'm

so

drunG

k, dear