continued from previous page


The following entries can be found on the first page
The TSTL Story by author Lynne Connolly (et al)
Dark Parody by Charity J
The Debut Author by Maxine Misso
The Audition by Rachel Potter
A Ballroom Encounter by (author) Alissa and Tessa Baxter
The following entries can be found on the second page
A Day in the Life of Anita Blake, Vampire Humper by Holly
Dear Author by Marguerite Kraft
Once a Ho by Blythe Barnhill
Pandora's Button by Nancy Carrigan
Across the Room by Margaret Murray-Evans
The following entries can be found on this page
The Virgin Widow Sex Kitten by Cheryl Sneed
Love's Burning Itch by Jenny Evans
The Pitch by author Amanda Grange
The Further Annotations of Lady Disallclown by Bina

Purple Prose as written by Cheryl Sneed, last year's co-winner:

The Virgin Widow Sex Kitten

Drake positioned his stiff, throbbing manhood at the portal to Penelope's dripping sheath. Finally. Finally he was to possess the enigmatic, widowed Lady Handsworth. He had been dreaming of this moment since the night he met her in Vauxhall and managed to steal a kiss on the Dark Walk. She had reeled him in like a seasoned, widow-on-the-town, brushing provocatively against him at Venetian Breakfasts, granting passionate kisses in theatre alcoves with the seemingly untutored air that drove him mad. Now. Now, he would make her his.

He slid further into her tight tunnel, so incredibly tight it was an effort not to embarrass himself by coming too soon. She moaned beneath him. Unable to wait any longer, he gave a cry and buried himself to the hilt as she shouted in pain. It was unmistakable. He had felt the barrier rip before his onslaught. She was a virgin!

He quickly withdrew from her, his manhood no longer a mighty sword, but shocked into regressing to its flaccid, though still impressive, state.

"Ow!" squeaked Penelope. "That hurt!"

"You're a virgin?" Drake asked accusingly. "A damned virgin!"

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"Well, yes. Is that a problem?"

"Is that a problem?!" Drake lunged from the bed, grabbed his dressing gown and impatiently tied it around his waist. He filled a large glass with brandy and threw himself into the low chair before the fire with a snort of disgust.

Penelope sat up in the bed, drawing the sheet up to cover her beautifully formed breasts. "Is that it? Is that the finish? That last part hurt, but I enjoyed everything that came before."

Drake snorted into his glass and took another long swallow.

"What? What is it? Why are you angry? I'm sorry I screamed, but you surprised me, you know. How was I to know that - - that thing would hurt so much? I'll try to be quieter next time."

"Next time?!" Drake's head snapped up. "Why didn't you tell me you were a damned virgin?"

"I didn't think it was important. Is it?"

"Penelope," Drake strove for a calm tone, "how long were you married to Lord Handsworth?"

"Ten years. Why?"

"And in all those years, he never.. took you to his bed?"

"Oh yes, of course he did. We would sit in bed together and he'd have me read to him. His favorite was Tom Jones."

"Is that all you did in bed - read? You didn't.. do what we were doing? I know he was old, but surely he must have tried to."

"Oh no!" Penelope blushed. "Though he did look at me once or twice and say 'I wish.' but he never said what it was he wished. I do wish he had told me what it was, for I would certainly have given it to him. He was so very kind to me."

Drake shook his head in bemused wonder. How could she be so naïve? He could have sworn she had been sending out lures to him for weeks now.

"That kiss at Vauxhall.."

Penelope lowered her eyes. "That was my first kiss, and it was a wondrous thing!"

"Your first..?" Drake shook his head. "But how does a virgin experiencing her first kiss know to thrust her tongue down a man's mouth?"

"Oh, that was an accident! I didn't mean to! I tasted a bit of strawberry on your lips, and I couldn't help myself. I love strawberries and so I.. I licked it off. You didn't seem to mind then, why do you now?"

"And at the Venetian Breakfast when you brushed against me and fondled my.."

"Oh! That!" Penelope lowered her eyes again. "You had muffin crumbs on your waistcoat and I brushed them away, but they fell down toward your breeches and so I followed them..."

Drake laughed ruefully and shook his head. What he had taken for arts and allurements had been nothing more than stupidity combined with innocence, a potent combination, it would seem.

"Drake, " Penelope said softly, "can we not continue? Does this mean you don't want me anymore?" She scooted to the edge of the bed, the sheet falling away from her luscious breasts.

Drake sat up stiffly in his chair. "Well, it does change things. You are - were - a virgin and there are rules about such things."

"But, none but we two know that I was innocent before tonight." She stood, allowing the sheet to slide sensuously down her lush body. "I won't tell, if you won't." She began to walk sinuously toward him, her hands running over her own body from her breasts, down her ribs and over her hips.

Something else of Drake's sat up stiffly in his chair. "What are you doing? How do you know to do that?"

Penelope shook out her long, glistening hair, allowing it to fall behind her shoulders, her abundant, coral-tipped breasts bobbing tantalizingly before him. He swallowed. Hard.

"I don't know. Maybe it was finally losing that pesky maidenhead, but I feel so free, so natural, so... hot." She gave him a smoldering look as she dropped to her knees before him. She placed her hands on his knees and slid the silky fabric of his dressing gown up his rock-hard thighs.

"You will tell me if I do anything wrong, won't you? I don't really know what I'm doing, but feel compelled to do this." Her hands reached the tie of his gown and slowly undid it to part the fabric, exposing his erection to her greedy eyes.

"No, no." Drake's voice was raspy. He cleared his throat. "No, you're doing fine."

Penelope smiled at him as she ran her fingers through the pelt of hair on his chest. She leaned forward and kissed each nipple, swirling her tongue over one, nipping the other with her small, white teeth. Drake groaned his approval.

"Ooh!" Penelope looked down to see his manhood nestled between her breasts. She brought her hands to either side her breasts and squeezed him between them, undulating in a circular pattern.

"Oh my god!" Drake was panting now.

"Is that not right? Can I do that? It feels good, but if you don't like it." Penelope said hesitantly.

"Oh no! It's. it's fine. Keep going." Drake managed to say between pants.

"Oh then. how about this? Is this allowed?" and Penelope bent her head down toward the shiny, smooth head of his manhood peeking up between her firm globes, where a pearly drop of his essence had appeared. Her tongue flickered over it, lapping him, circling him, taking him into her mouth where she sucked with reckless abandon.

"Where - what - how - - how do you know to do that?!" Drake gasped. "I've had experienced whores who didn't do that as well."

Penelope released him from her mouth with a popping sound. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling beneath her lashes. "Just a quick learner?"

She crawled up his body, shoving the dressing gown off his broad, muscular shoulders and straddling his lap. "Now, tell me if I'm doing this right."

She grasped his throbbing manhood in her hand, guided it to her dewy opening and sat down upon it.

"Ahhhh.." She said on a sigh. "That didn't hurt at all that time!" She smiled at Drake whose face was showing signs of strain. "But you look as if you are in pain. Shall I stop?"

"NO!" Drake shouted. "Don't even think about stopping!"

"Good, because I don't want to. Is it all right if I move? I feel as if I should move."

Drake got out a strangled affirmative.

Penelope rose up on her knees and slowly slid down the length of him with a sigh of contentment. "Ooh! Look what I can do!" This time, as she rose up, her inner muscles tightened around him squeezing him with an almost painful pleasure. "Oh, I'm glad I found that. That is much better isn't it?"

Drake was beyond coherent articulation. He managed a grunt of appreciation.

Penelope's hands crept up to her breasts where she fondled them, plucking at the nipples as she undulated on him. "Oh, this is good, too" she said.

Drake's control snapped as he pushed her hands away and attached his mouth to her breast, drawing on the nipple with fierce intensity as Penelope began to shudder, signaling the onset of her fulfillment. Drake released her breast, and brought her mouth to his where he captured her keening cries. He grabbed her hips and thrust strongly once, twice, a third time into her before crying out his own release.

Wrapped in each other's arms, their racing hearts slowing, their breathing becoming less audible, Penelope raised her head. She reached up and licked his lips. "That was wonderful. Can we do it again? I have a few more ideas."

Drake groaned and fell back into his chair. She was going to be the death of him. God save him from Virgin Widows.

Purple Prose as written by Jenny Evans:

Love's Burning Itch

Miss Letitia Bennett paused, her hand on the doorknob to her true love's bedchamber. Her heart pounded in her chest as the enormity of what she was about to do sank in. Soon, too soon, she'd be forced to marry her despicable cousin Edmund. But before she settled for a lifetime of clammy, cousinly embraces, she was going to enjoy a single night of throbbing passion. Something to remember in the long, cold Yorkshire nights that lay ahead.

A groan sounded through the thick mahogany door and she knew it was her lover, moaning for her to come in and ease the torturous desire he'd felt for her ever since they'd met earlier that day.

"Don't break the bed," said the footman who'd led her to her true love's bedchamber. She blushed fiercely, embarrassed that one of the servants knew what she was about to do, and pushed the door open.

"I'm here, your grace! Here to unite our bodies as one," she trilled. She gasped as her eyes adjusted to the bright light of the room.

There, on a great four-poster bed, lay Roderick Horne, Duke of Lech. His family was illustrious, but he was so notorious that everyone in the ton called him The Lech. There was no other.

"Oh, hallo," he called. On his left lay a busty blonde; on his right, a striking redhead. A mysterious brunette sprawled over his feet. "Care for a menage a cinq?" he asked.

Letitia could only shake her head, her mouth even more agape than it usually was. Being a true innocent, she was often surprised.

"Sevensies, then?" The Lech went on. "I've a couple of footmen undressing in the next room. I've only to call them in."

"But we're supposed to . by ourselves . my God, seven! That can't be legal."

The Lech sighed. "All right, girls, get out. Five minutes, please. Go have yourselves a spot to eat."

The women - his doxies, Letitia belatedly realized - filed out of the room. Finally, she was alone with the only man who could ever teach her real passion.

The Lech stretched and pulled on a burgundy silk dressing gown. Its lime green lining and mink lapels would've looked froufrou on another man, but they only enhanced his raw masculinity. He stalked toward her, his gaze as predatory as a panther's.

"Couch?" he asked, wiggling one coal-black brow. "Or floor? The bed's a bit damp, I'm afraid."

Letitia bit her lip. Her womanly chamber began to burn; she instinctively knew it was a hint of what he alone could give her. Lust mixed with trepidation warred for supremacy in her heart. Lust won.

"Oh, your grace," she said. "I hardly know what to do." "Not to worry," he said with an oily leer. Seizing her in his arms, he slurped at the hollow at the base of her throat. His hands flew to cover her breasts, and he began to twist her nipples like a candy maker pulling taffy. "Letitia," he breathed. "How I adore your Little-tit-i-as." He chortled loudly at his own lame pun.

"Ow," she moaned. "That's too painful for words." She smacked his hands away. "I've watched hundreds, perhaps thousands, of animals mating. But none of papa's chickens ever did that."

"The chambermaid seems to like it well enough," he said. Hurt radiated from his eyes like heat from a radiator. She remembered all the pain he'd already suffered - not making the best cricket team at Eton; losing his favorite valet in a cholera epidemic.

"What else've you got?" she asked, her sugary voice sweeter than sugar. She suddenly yearned to please him and be pleased by him, if only for a night. Or in this case, she realized with a glance at the clock, for three and a half more minutes.

"Watch this," he said, his voice seeming to lick all of her senses to life. "I shall mesmerize you into a state of lust with my man-cobra."

He moved a few steps away and let his dressing gown fall open. Slowly, he jerked his hips to the left, then the right, then the front. His hips jerked faster and faster as he leapt toward her, as if drawn by an invisible string.

Letitia fought back horrified laughter. "Who taught you that?"

"Thought it up meself," he said with a jaunty grin. "An opera dancer I had once said it was the most erotic thing she'd ever seen."

"Really?" Letitia's voice was tinged with doubt.

The Lech frowned. "Actually she called it the most bizarre thing, but her English was horrible. I knew what she meant."

Letitia found her attention drawn to an ugly red sore on the side of his man-cobra. "You're hurt," she said softly, her eyes searching his. "Did you get wounded in the war?"

He snorted. "If by 'wounded' you mean 'the clap' and by 'war' you mean 'East-end brothel,' then yes. Yes, I did."

"The clap?" She edged closer to the door.

He plopped onto a chair and took a swig out of a nearby brandy decanter. "Not to worry," he said as he wiped his mouth. "The doctor said it was a healthy dose."

"Oh," she cried, stamping her foot, "it's not supposed to be this way! We're supposed to join body and soul in a glorious night of passion before I return to Yorkshire. You'll be so entranced by my virginal charms that you'll go after me and force me to marry you so that no other man can partake of my lovebox."

"Why would I do that?" he asked. "You got tits made of gold or something?"

She shook her head. "Secret past as a sultan's harem girl? Extraordinary skills with a whip?"

"N-n-n-not that I-I know of," she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"In that case, I don't think your plan will work. Honestly, my marrying a virgin is about as likely as someone paying me for sex." He threw the brandy decanter into the fireplace and stared bitterly at his feet. "Nothing good like that ever happens to me," he muttered.

"Goodbye, then," she said, moving to the door. She cast one last look over her shoulder at the Lech, searching for some sign that he wanted her to stay. He was yelling out the window, asking a passing street vendor if she liked to party.

Letitia sighed, resigned to her fate. Perhaps someday she'd learn affection for cousin Edmund, something more than the pity mixed with contempt that she felt for him now. But she knew it would never compare to what she could have felt with The Lech. For he alone could have taught her true passion. And the value of penicillin.

Purple Prose as written by author Amanda Grange in homage to Austen's Pride & Prejudice:

The Pitch

'I've never done a pitch before, but . . . ' The face on the other side of the desk was rapidly losing interest. Pulling herself together, she said, 'I've written a wonderful book. The hero's called Fitzwilliam -'

The face grew even more bored.

' - I mean William -'

A frown.

' - that is to say, Wills . . der . . .' she said, playing for time, 'Will.'

'Der . . . will?' He frowned. 'Ah, Devil! That's a great accent you've got there, Miss Austen, but you're going to have to work on it. OK, so the hero's called Devil.'

She had his attention now. He had the name wrong, but it was a minor point and one she could sort out later.

'Like all single men of good fortune, he was in want of -'

'A woman like no other,' he said, nodding. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk.

'I was going to say a wife,' she faltered.

'Yes, yes, at the end of the book,' he said impatiently,' but we haven't got there yet. So tell me, Miss Austen, how do they meet?'

'They meet at a ball. He -'

' - drags her into the window embrasure, draws the curtains round them, then whilst the music plays and duchesses dance a few inches away, he ravishes her. She's driven to ecstasy, a loud chord from the orchestra masks their cries, she straightens her dress, he reties his cravat, and they join the other dancers, waltzing together as though nothing has happened. I love it.'

' - says she's not very beautiful,' finished Miss Austen weakly. He looked startled. Then excited.

'Yes, I see what you mean. They meet, he says she's no beauty, she's annoyed - a woman scorned. SHE drags HIM into the window embrasure and SHE teaches HIM the meaning of hot, naked lust. Go on!' he said.

'Well, her little sister teases his friend to give a ball -'

'Ah! A minx! Long legs, pert breasts. She teases the friend beyond endurance, he takes her -'

'No, no, no! He falls in love with her sister. Her other sister. Jane.'

He rubbed his hands together. 'What, there are THREE of them?'

'Five, actually.'

'FIVE sisters. This is HOT. You're going places, Austen. I can see the sequels already. So the minx teases the friend - what's his name?'


'Singley? Oh, Sinfully - it's that accent again. So the minx - what's her name?'


'Litier? Ah, Lustier! So Lustier teases Sinfully beyond endurance. Jane - you'll have to work on that name - Jane comes along, there's a big misunderstanding -'


'What, no Big Mis?'

'No! They go to the ball -'

'All five of them?'

'Yes. Jane, Lizzy, Mary, Kitty and Lustier - I mean Lydia. Mary's bookish. She plays the piano and wears glasses - '

'Oho! THAT type! Still waters. Passion unleashed. Take off your glasses, let down your hair.'

'NO, NO, NO!!! Lizzy's in love with Devil . . . I mean Fitzwilliam . . . that is Darcy.'

'Three of them at once! This girl's a fast worker.'

'She . . . is . . . in . . . love . . . with . . . Fitzwilliam . . . Darcy,' she said through gritted teeth. 'He has ten thousand a year -'

'Ten THOUSAND? You've got to be kidding. He has TEN THOUSAND women a year? And viagra hadn't even been invented then! What a stud.'

'Ten thousand pounds,' she said icily.

He frowned. 'What's that in dollars?'

'Never mind. He's rich. Very rich. And he's sort of betrothed to the daughter of his mother's friend.'

'I see. His fiancée throws him over, he's scarred for life - or so he thinks, until he meets Whatsername -'



'No, that isn't it at all,' she said.

'OK, the fiancée's a shrew. She's determined to have him at all costs She's not going to let anyone get in her way. She kidnaps Dizzy -'

'No one kidnaps anyone - unless you count Wickham eloping with Lydia.'

'Dick 'em elopes with Lustier? They hide up in Birmingham, am I right?'

'London, actually.'

'Where he ravishes her.'

'I leave that to the readers' imagination.'

'Big mistake. The reader wants to know what happens. The reader has a right to know what happens. OK, so he ravishes her.'

'Then Devil - Darcy turns up. He rescues Lustier - I mean Lydia.'

'Before or after ravishing her?'

'He doesn't ravish her at all. He's the HERO.'

'Pity. It would have worked.'

'And he makes Dick 'em - I mean Wickham - marry her. Lizzy is grateful to him for saving her sister's reputation -' she said.

'I see it all. She invites him for a moonlight swim. They slip naked beneath the waters. She thanks him with her body -'

'She says, Thank you, Mr Darcy -'

'What? He's ravished her behind the curtains and in the lake, and she still calls him Mr Darcy?'

'She starts to see she was wrong about him. Her aunt likes him -'

'Now that's something new. Another sequel. Aunt's Awakening. Thwarted love. The aunt's twenty-five. Devil breaks her heart. She runs away. She meets an older man . . . or maybe a younger man . . . but that's for later.'

'Lizzy's beginning to wish she hadn't rejected Darcy,' she said firmly. 'She was wrong about him She believed Dick 'em - I mean Wickham - when he told lies about him.'

'Ah! So that's The Big Mis,' he nodded.

'So now she wants to make it up to him. I see candles, I see a bedroom. The aunt is out. Dizzy and Devil are alone -'

'His aunt hears of his attachment.'

'HIS aunt. I thought it was HER aunt.'

'They both have an aunt,' she said quellingly. 'His aunt hears of the attachment and tells her she can't marry him. She says she'll do as she likes -'

'And what she likes is to take him in the garden, on a stone bench, with the sun caressing her naked thighs -'

'He hears of it, and thinking it might mean she loves him, he goes to see her.'

'She's alone,' he said. 'The servants are out. He takes her on the sofa, with the firelight caressing her naked thighs -'

'He sits there without saying a word.'

'Strong, silent, type. I get it. She has to make the first move.'

'No one makes any moves. He goes.'

'Without ravishing her?'

'Without ravishing her.'

'I thought he had ten thousand a year? Oh, I get it, he's worn out. Who wouldn't be? So she has to tempt him. I like it. I like it a lot.'

'Her sister gets engaged,' she told him forcefully. 'Darcy goes to see her father and asks if he can marry her.'

'Her FATHER? What does he have to do with anything.'

'Darcy proposes, Lizzy says yes.'

'OK, OK, you're jumping ahead a bit, but I see it all. They marry, they have a boy and a girl, she bounces the baby on her knee, just as Lustier bursts in. She's left Dick 'em. She's tired of men. Until she sees the footman, with rippling muscles and long, flowing hair cascading around his smooth, tanned neck. Only he isn't really a footman, but Seduction, 3rd earl of Manhood, who's disguised himself as a footman in order to find the man who is blackmailing his sister -'

'No. That is THE END.'

'But the sequels?'

'There are no sequels. Lizzy meets Darcy at a ball. He's rude, she stands up to him, he's entranced. Wickham poisons her mind against him, then elopes with her sister. Darcy saves Lydia's reputation, Lizzy realizes she was wrong about him, she's relieved he's still in love with her and they get married.'

'It's a pity. You almost had a great idea there, Austen, but you'll have to put more action and sex in the thing it you want to get it published.'

'Published?' she breathed. The word rang like a silver bell in her ears. 'Published?' she whispered, entranced.

'Yes, published. Just use the ideas we talked about, and you're going into print.'

She should be true to her art, but oh! to be published . . .

'It's a deal, then,' he said. 'By the way, what do you call the thing?'

Oh, why not? she thought. 'Prid - Sex and Sinfulness,' she said.

'Great. No we'll want five sequels, one for each of the sisters, and one for the aunt. Titles?'

'How about Sex and Sauciness, Sauce and Sexiness, Sin and Sex, and Sex and Sin?' she said.

'Great. And the last one?'

'I've got it. Sense and Sensib - Sense and Sensuality.'

He grinned. 'You'll go far in this business, Austen. Welcome aboard.'

Purple Prose as written by Bina in homage to Julia Quinn and dedicated to the AAR staff (both past and present) in gratitude for many hours of entertainment:

The Further Annotations of Lady Disallclown

Ah.Gentle Readers. As summer hits its stride, those opposing ranks of Society once again wage full battle in what has oft been referred to in This Humble Column as the "wedding wars." Indeed, the Ambitions Mamas seem more determined than ever to see their Darling Debutantes settled by capturing and conquering those ever-Determined Bachelors. But wait! A development of startling magnitude has been brought to This Author's attention. Dapper Mr. Bert Spannerton of that prolific, alphabetical, look-alike Spannerton clan (and not to be confused with his elder brother, Viscount-I-Shoulda-Been-A-Duke Albert Spannerton) was overheard telling his younger sister Daffodil (fondly referred to as Daffy by her ubiquitous siblings) that the members of the elite Society of Men Who Are Cads (or SOMWAC) decided that the last man of said society to remain unmarried would be a rotten egg.

This Author is the first to admit amazement at the foibles of society (especially those of the male persuasion) but recognizes her duty to further examine this unexpected turn of events!

While This Author has never had the pleasure to set foot in that august, misogynistic establishment, Trite's, rumor has it that the betting books are full of speculation as to who will be the rotten egg. Additionally, aspiration to avoid being the odiferous ovule can be the only justification for the recent influx of bachelors at the ever-tedious Dulmacks, an occurrence that has patroness Lady Rhode Island making certain additional stale cakes (Calvin Spannerton's appetite being legendary) and warm lemonade be made available. So, too, is the increase in pretentious promenading along Jekyll Park's Bottom Row thus explained.

And la, but what a to-do at Lady Bamburry's ball Wednesday last. The appearance of no less than eight eligible Spannerton brothers (who have been otherwise known to avoid all such affairs with remarkable perseverance) had the direct effect of causing a lack of verticality in nearly every marriage-minded miss in attendance (in addition to causing general confusion since no one could tell them apart). One Spannerton sister (Flora? Lilac?) was overheard lamenting to another (Hydrangea?) their own lack of amorous alternatives being related to (and looking astonishingly like) the majority of available bachelors at the ball. Both sisters appeared determined not to end up being Mrs. Rotten Egg. It was furthermore whispered in This Author's ear that Mrs. Plumesborogh was witnessed herding her own gaggle to yet another fitting for new dresses, most likely in the latest juicy-fruit colors and no doubt intended to be worn at next week's latest episode in auditory anguish, the Pythe-Pith musicale. She was overheard quite loudly pronouncing her fondest wish to perhaps woo over one of the hundreds of eligible bachelors left lurking and in limbo from the hundreds of romances by Other Authors since no one in the series to which she belongs seem interested in her unfortunate daughters. She further contended to her unaccountably bosom friend, Viscountess Daisy Spannerton, (matron of aforementioned brood) that with enough class and capitol, even a villain would do. Said eligibles were observed diving back into their own pages wanting to avoid both the Plumesboroghs as well as being the rotten egg.

Indeed, Dear Reader, we none of us anticipate any of those oh-so-sparkling-darlings-of-the-ton Spannertons (excluding those too young to contemplate their nuptials, especially tiny Zinnia who is as yet just a zygote) to ever be the rotten egg though they have all evaded the marriage mart thus far (much to their mother's distress). Titled or no, they are quite simply too spectacular and irresistible (though perhaps a bit overwhelming en masse) and one cannot help wondering if they will puff off alphabetically.. This Author anticipates eagerly all ensuing antics and presents the esteemed opinion that this Season will be the most connubial in recent history. Indeed, circulation of this wicked little column depends upon it! Can we expect a surfeit of invitations to attend hallowed ceremonies as summer wanes (those hastily procured special licenses so often necessary following parties of rustication notwithstanding)? Who will be the rotten egg? And whatever shall I do, Dear Reader, when those seemingly limitless Spannertons are finally all blissfully wedded?


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