the Radishes are coming. .. over the hyporical hill, hand bags flying in all directions.

one more unattended pituary gland= coming over the hill, handbag in one hand, whaler’s harpoon in the other. It calls, with the eerie, sad sound of a peacock? ”Oh All hallows dissenters, rest not until the deed is done!” and then diisapears into the yellow mist.

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