Miss Minerva Ledwitch, of a forenoon lying abed with Mr Crass Cheseham, postcoitally was moved to vent certain considered opinions which had of late pressed somewhat vexingly against her thorax. —
Herod, Mr Crass Cheseham
“I know, Cheseham dear, but you must consider the bigger picture. Stokes Croft needs colonic irrigation. It would mean a great deal to me.” —
Stokes Croft, colonic irrigation
Now was the domestic idyll interrupted by the bombination of the intercom. Miss Minerva Ledwitch detached herself from the flesh made one, swung plump legs over bed’s edge, pulled over her head a lace negligée, and began to look very Edwardian indeed. —
intercom
A grunt from Mr Crass Cheseham, signifying qualified assent. The Ledwitch prognosis promptly vindicated, inasmuch as that veritable Aeolus Mr Don Quicksotte now blew into the conjugal apartment, coming to a halt in the still centre of the lounge pertaining to that palace, the low ceilings whereof very much reinforced his impression of great tallness. —
Don Quicksotte
“Don shares my positive estimation of the new proposals for Penistone House,” said Miss Minerva Ledwitch, helping herself to a generous proportion of the breeziness which ever swirled about the Titan to whom she alluded. —
Penistone House
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