this humour may be a garous excretion and olidous separation

I gave the maitre d’ a $10 toke and he just laughed.

When he had let what he deemed was a sufficiency of blood out of the incised vein, he called to Elvira to bring a spoon of sut from off the back of the fireplace and a gaum of spiderwebs from somewhere or other.

Too many, however, who might take an honourable stand, fear the petty spleen of the plantocracy; preferring the most disgusting adulation, to the blessing of him ready to perish.