We lived in a very descript dwelling. The garden was in a state of array. Kempt shrubs and beds and shevelled paths. Even the gardener moved in a gainly way. A bit of care and the place would be mitigable. Sometimes on pulse I felt I could molate the moral intendent in the cinerator along with his calcitrant staff. He was so perious and pervious yet perturbable if any of us were pertinent. I liked him.
I'll make bones about it, I still had to leave. Once out, I'd have to travel cognito. Mured as a orphan, I'd become mune to ship. Every road I'd choose was practicable, every argument I'd use would be plausible for I'd plicate none of my fellow orphans nor ply any staff had helped me on my way.
I left with ception for I duced that they would except me to so do.