being litten for the long (O land, how long!) lifesnight, with
suffusion of fineglass transom and leadlight panes.

Wherefore let it hardly by any being thinking be said either or
thought that the prisoner of that sacred edifice, were he an Ivor
the Boneless or an Olaf the Hide, was at his best a onestone par-
able, a rude breathing on the void of to be, a venter hearing his
own bauchspeech in backwords, or, more strictly, but tristurned
initials, the cluekey to a worldroom beyond the roomwhorld, for
scarce one, or pathetically few of his dode canal sammenlivers
cared seriously or for long to doubt with Kurt Iuld van Dijke
(the gravitational pull perceived by certain fixed residents and
the capture of uncertain comets chancedrifting through our sys-
tem suggesting an authenticitatem of his aliquitudinis) the canoni-
city of his existence as a tesseract. Be still, O quick! Speak him
dumb! Hush ye fronds of Ulma!