column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three.
Three pounds, thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but
resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he
allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still
patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not
too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One
tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch
him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly
season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat
certainly. MATCHAM OFTEN THINKS OF THE MASTERSTROKE BY WHICH HE WON THE
LAUGHING WITCH WHO NOW. Begins and ends morally. HAND IN HAND. Smart. He
glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow
quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received
payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some
proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said
dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her
nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5. Did
Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What
possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A
speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Morning
after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the
hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then
night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head
dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money.