Cony hem

What warmth, she thought, what history tomorrow needs Eden, voodoo ethology stunted by the talkies, fresh mention in the press aloud thawed her flaming tattoo.  She jotted it, a short note to the mute gypsy, "O you I wanly told how their known occult wisps wait."  Leaky, an Ark sets out; callow vessel gladly chilled hatchets, molted noontime apathy, clotted thin ant.  She threshes ribald toot, I go.  Ere wee dandyism ...  Cony hem.  A heron duet bandied, truant.