Gibber

Sometimes the Lady Smock could be a flibbertigibbet. Today was such a day. Harry had not arrived at the prearranged time and she was starting to worry.

Sitting in the tea shop, tapping her toe, her lemon scone and Darjeeling cooled. She wondered whether there had been an accident. She pictured poor Harry, her darling Mr. Bittercress, crumpled on a curb, attended by strangers, spittle and gibber dribbling from his lips, advising his saviours, “Tell the Lady how sorry I am her tea has gone cold.”

Lady Smock smiled as she nibbled the scone and waited for Harry to arrive.

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