Having spent several minutes deciding not to risk what passed for soup at Malwell's table, Lady Weston-Hogues fell into a brown study.
In her younger life, Winnie (an unfortunate nickname acquired during her time at Oxford) had been quite the beauty - a right old corker, as her dear departed husband had used to say - and now her mind took a brief promenade back to those cherished days of youth. Imagining her slender, pretty form encased in lavish frock, surrounded by many a dashing suitor, the aging widow sighed deeply. Would that today's festivities held such promise...
Rousing herself from these foolish reveries, Lady Weston-Hogues cast a discerning eye about the table, judging the company with a barely-disguised sneer. Fools, bounders, jackanapes. Barely a hint of class between them...
Sighing deeply, she quaffed what remained of her wine, then tapped impatiently on the glass, awaiting further refreshment.
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