TYPOS NUMBER TWO

My typing hasn't improved since I last listed some of my boneheaded typos. In the intervening weeks I produced the following gems. I'll leave it to you to figure out what I really intended in each case.

He sifted his gaze . . .

He'd consider it only fir.

The planet rotted on its axis . . .

A gin spread across the lord's face.

The carcass would go to the tanner for draining and skinning, thence to the bitcher for cutting up.

. . . for pubic circulation . . .

. . . the riling family . . .

. . . a cackling hearth fire . . .

. . . in a frail, stained voice . . .

. . . a grasp of the fundaments . . .

And so it goes. Come back next week--and may a real angel land on your Christmas tree.