Now is Miss Minerva Ledwitch jerked from her revery by the hawking, in her vicinity, of sputum. —
Herod
Mr Crass Cheseham pauses to spit erstwhile hawked mucus into one of the nondescript and sickly shrubs adorning that garden of earthly delights, then slouches towards Charybdis, in which yet coyly reposes that spring’s voluptuous siren. On her part, there is a deal of pouting, and the coquettish fluttering of eyelashes upon plump cheeks. It wants an Enobarbus of the grotesque; nor is there even a Mark Anthony, but only Crass Cheseham who, confessing inwardly his tumescence, somewhat resentfully leaves off picking his nose, inspects with ad hoc strabismus the final harvest, and promptly swallows his bounty. —
Mark Antony, Mr Crass Cheseham, Charybdis (Mangotsfield)
“Quicksotte? I told him to wait there in case you came. I cannot,” she adds, “be expected to traipse through the vestibule in the nude.” —
Don Quicksotte
Presently, the bungalow’s back door opens once more, and once more excretes into the garden Mr Don Quicksotte. This gentleman, a weak smile plastered across his weak face, stumbles past the tub’s lip. Miss Minerva Ledwitch becomes instantly imperious. —
Mangotsfield bungalow
“Like,” says he, “like it’s like a like Wanksy, yeah?” —
Wanksy
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