the shadow of the Mount Venerean. Warts in the valley of the shadow of.
âYour warts are better.â
Ostentatiously he clapped his mouth upon the place. She squeezed the Giudecca of her palm against the centre of distribution, nailing his malas with thumb and index. That was lovely. In the rue Delambre with a silk handkerchief did he not stem and staunch the vomitdribble of littérateur deaddrunk and cornuted what's more into the bargain on Pernod Fils and Pick-me-up? How often had henot denied all knowledge of Hernani? Poor Hamlet rolling his belly waxes and tapers the spike of his navelthread for the red waistcoat. The beadlust. By no thinking shall he consume that enterprise, by no new thoughts shall he altogether be released from the postulate of his undertaking. Fast in the black sand.
Let us off the tutti chords now and tell us frankly shutting your eyes like Rouletabille what you think of our erotic sostenutino. Crémieux hold your saliva and you Curtius, we have a little note somewhere on Anteros we do believe, in fact we seem to remember we once wrote a poem (Nth. Gt. George's St. triphthong Corporal Banquo,
if
you please) on him or to him cogged from the liquorish laypriest's Magic Ode and if we don't forget we'll have the good taste to shove in the little ducky-diver as a kind of contrapuntal compensation do you comprehend us and in deference to your Pisan penchants for literary stress and strain.
Well really you know and in spite of the haricot skull and a tendency to use up any odds and ends of pigment that happened to be left over she was the living spit he thought of Madonna Lucrezia del Fede. Ne suis-je point pâle? Suis-je belle? But certainly pale and belle my pale belle Braut with a winter skin like any old sail in the wind. The root and the source betwixt and between the little athletic or aesthetic bit of a birdneb was indeed we assure you a constant source of delight and astonishment, when his solitude was not peopled and justified and beautified and even his sociabilities by a constipated coryza, to his forefinger pad and nail, rubbing and plumbing and palping and boring it just as for many years he polished (ecstasy of attrition!) his glasses or suffered the shakes and gracenote strangulations and enthrottlements of the Winkelmusik of Szopen orPichon or Chopinek or Chopinetto or whosoever it was embraced her heartily as sure as his name was Fred, dying all his life (thanks Mr Auber) on a sickroom talent (thanks Mr Field) and a Kleinmeister's Leidenschaftsucherei (thanks Mr Beckett), or crossed the Seine or the Pegnitz or the Tolka or the Fulda as the case might be and it never by any possible chance on one single solitary occasion occurring to him that he was on all such and similar occasions (which we regret to say lack of space obliges us regretfully to exclude from this chronicle) not merely indulging in but pandering to the vilest and basest excesses of sublimation of a certain kind. The wretched little wet plug of an upperlip, pugnozzling up and back in a kind of a duck or a cobra sneer to the nostrils was happily to some small extent mollified and compensated by the fine full firm undershot priapism of under-lip and chin, a signal recovery to say the least and a reaffirmation of the promise of sentimentic vehemence already so gothly declamatory in the wedgehead of the strapping fizgig. From time to time she positively only had to snatch off her amice to be a birdface and to have put Pope John Kissmine and Orchids in mind of his Puerpetually Suc-courbusting Lady as she positively must have appeared on at least two probabionary occasions:
primo,
skewered, there's no other word for it, to her loggia by the shining gynaecologist;
secundo,
confined, by Thermidor, in the interests of her armpits, to her bathroom, shamed in mind, yes, and yetâgrieving for the doomed olives. Well we must say and no offence meant, that class of egoterminal immaculate quackery and dupery gives us the
âYour warts are better.â
Ostentatiously he clapped his mouth upon the place. She squeezed the Giudecca of her palm against the centre of distribution, nailing his malas with thumb and index. That was lovely. In the rue Delambre with a silk handkerchief did he not stem and staunch the vomitdribble of littérateur deaddrunk and cornuted what's more into the bargain on Pernod Fils and Pick-me-up? How often had henot denied all knowledge of Hernani? Poor Hamlet rolling his belly waxes and tapers the spike of his navelthread for the red waistcoat. The beadlust. By no thinking shall he consume that enterprise, by no new thoughts shall he altogether be released from the postulate of his undertaking. Fast in the black sand.
Let us off the tutti chords now and tell us frankly shutting your eyes like Rouletabille what you think of our erotic sostenutino. Crémieux hold your saliva and you Curtius, we have a little note somewhere on Anteros we do believe, in fact we seem to remember we once wrote a poem (Nth. Gt. George's St. triphthong Corporal Banquo,
if
you please) on him or to him cogged from the liquorish laypriest's Magic Ode and if we don't forget we'll have the good taste to shove in the little ducky-diver as a kind of contrapuntal compensation do you comprehend us and in deference to your Pisan penchants for literary stress and strain.
Well really you know and in spite of the haricot skull and a tendency to use up any odds and ends of pigment that happened to be left over she was the living spit he thought of Madonna Lucrezia del Fede. Ne suis-je point pâle? Suis-je belle? But certainly pale and belle my pale belle Braut with a winter skin like any old sail in the wind. The root and the source betwixt and between the little athletic or aesthetic bit of a birdneb was indeed we assure you a constant source of delight and astonishment, when his solitude was not peopled and justified and beautified and even his sociabilities by a constipated coryza, to his forefinger pad and nail, rubbing and plumbing and palping and boring it just as for many years he polished (ecstasy of attrition!) his glasses or suffered the shakes and gracenote strangulations and enthrottlements of the Winkelmusik of Szopen orPichon or Chopinek or Chopinetto or whosoever it was embraced her heartily as sure as his name was Fred, dying all his life (thanks Mr Auber) on a sickroom talent (thanks Mr Field) and a Kleinmeister's Leidenschaftsucherei (thanks Mr Beckett), or crossed the Seine or the Pegnitz or the Tolka or the Fulda as the case might be and it never by any possible chance on one single solitary occasion occurring to him that he was on all such and similar occasions (which we regret to say lack of space obliges us regretfully to exclude from this chronicle) not merely indulging in but pandering to the vilest and basest excesses of sublimation of a certain kind. The wretched little wet plug of an upperlip, pugnozzling up and back in a kind of a duck or a cobra sneer to the nostrils was happily to some small extent mollified and compensated by the fine full firm undershot priapism of under-lip and chin, a signal recovery to say the least and a reaffirmation of the promise of sentimentic vehemence already so gothly declamatory in the wedgehead of the strapping fizgig. From time to time she positively only had to snatch off her amice to be a birdface and to have put Pope John Kissmine and Orchids in mind of his Puerpetually Suc-courbusting Lady as she positively must have appeared on at least two probabionary occasions:
primo,
skewered, there's no other word for it, to her loggia by the shining gynaecologist;
secundo,
confined, by Thermidor, in the interests of her armpits, to her bathroom, shamed in mind, yes, and yetâgrieving for the doomed olives. Well we must say and no offence meant, that class of egoterminal immaculate quackery and dupery gives us the
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