Where has Sir Lather gone? I fear he has bolted, no doubt revolted by the loud and raucous argument between Lady E and Lady Edwarda over his fair body. Else, he lurks, waiting to snag the 1000 grub?
I suppose I shall just wander off into the bushes. If Sir Lather comes looking for me, with a Reidel glass of cabernet, how shall he find me? I know, I shall try a trick I learned in fairy tales when I was a child. But I have no bread . . . . I know, I'll just leave a trail of garments.
First the cobalt blue silk gown, dropped here beside the picnic blanket, thus. Then the kirtle, dropped along the path to the beech copse, thus. Then the chemise, dropped at the entry to the beech copse, thus. Then the left stocking, dropped . . . . (voice getting fainter, fading into the bushes).
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