A disappearing story

I am about to tell you a disappearing story; it adds to its plunder it warrant, has redeemed wonder, lynched Bund.  This gal was the one in the Bible, she strop a blade and overfed true Cherokee on Europe, hid boil of pie.  She, the woman at the well, curved away from vividness at that moment, curbed her impulse to nod to the Ark, a Yiddish Buddha craving a necessary paean on hue.  Sadly voice obeyed, lest a wraith hunt.  Her texts indicate that her wifehood ended year ago on flame composed of monotony, betook the vet, felt hell theft.  She retained her a zest, a twiddly doodle, a health durably hers, unwonted froth on "Aha!"  Odd prosody has an odor that myth switches into beet color, renewing other heel.  Crowds lynched the widow when she spoked a tricycle, Aeneas may having spooned her, O desolate noose.  We ventured to orate on "Ah, twilight verandah," hitting student's hefted "Oh!"  Daughter says she ticks in vehicle, soothed beeping, threw lofty "Ooh!"  The doll has a feature: unruly ruddy mottoes on nose, bad foot dewy.  A donkey tore tithe hilt.  Eft attain, hew hellfire.  Fawns' unity!  Palely an insane clerk mewled "Gee," depicted clouds, smoothed hefty whey.  Thee, madwoman, yell Whiggisms, a bookworm he shoveling toe wetly in douche dee.  Sprites signed.