Lord Snatch, overhearing this transaction was moved to inveigh against the delays thereby portended to the anaesthetising of his abscess. —
Lord Snatch
These proceedings were vey soon aborted by the entry of Illingworth, leading by hand the self-same youth whom the diligent reader will have apprehended as Vladimir Inhali, previously encountered by the Catiline of Picton Street outside ’Nam. —
Vladimir Inhali
“Oh,” said Illingworth happily, “I’m sure your abscess isn’t going to polish you off just yet. I must say, I’m all agog to hear about the Vert Rouge gwerreel-yaz. But what on earth am I about, youth must ever sup tiffin. I say Enny love, do go off and see if you can run to ground any almond milk in this benighted slum.” —
Vert Rouge
Enematopoeia absenting herself in search of the provender above specified, everyone else settled themselves in Illingworth’s consulting room in anticipation of Vlad the inhaler’s apologia pro suae ecolaliae. Illingworth subsided plumply into his nasty little plastic chair, Clismathea arranged herself seductively upon the unpleasant desk, and Lord Snatch sought his elusive ease upon the closed-madhouse or hipster hospital bed. For his part, Vlad the Inhaler vey tribally … er … squatted upon the toilet installed by the latter-day Duchamp. —
Illingworth’s consulting room
“Young man,” said he, eyeing the youth Vladimir where that helot persisted in his unseemly crouch atop the latter-day Duchamp toilet, “young man, I am given to understand that, whilom you enjoyed not the benefits of Eton or Harrow or, God spare us, Winchester, at any rate you had at least the rudiments - second rate, for which I make due allowances - of a classical education. This being so, I do not appreciate the necessity which you place yourself under to clutter an already leaden discourse with your phatic nonsense.” —
Duchamp toilet
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