Sentence The Sixtyeighth
For the present, we must draw a veil, light as gossamer, across the first proper encounter of Theresa Somerville and her Dresden Shepherdess, whose name is Nikki Marianella, but we shall return to it;
because it is time to wind the clock back and be transported as on a Magic Carpet through time and space to Friday past, and far to the East, pausing briefly at his Chambers, where through the window we can spy on Martin Elginbrod QC, seemingly in a splenetic or apoplectic rage – ripping pages to shreds and scattering them wildly, throwing pink-beribboned briefs (not Ladies, Legal ones) into corners; roaring like a banshee, knocking over piles of books and other papers, even kicking the poor Office Moggie, who yelps and tries to slink into a nook – and why is Elginbrod so ferocious – he is not searching, for this manner of search would be futile – perhaps he has received bad news, or an anonymous threat, maybe an attempt at extortion with a threat to rattle his ubiety, his perception of his own fixed place in time and space, even to flay him of his riches, his monetary insulation, just as a whaler flense his catch of it's blubber; now that would certainly account for his frenetic behaviour, in which there is no sense of order or calm; we wonder who might have upset him so – and wondering, ever so slightly, for we do have some knowledge of these matter, we pat our Magic Carpet and ask it to move on, perhaps to a hostelry on the Southern fringe of the City, between the City Boundary and the Bypass, where other acquaintances of ours might be meeting, with the subject of their tryst, that same Martin Elginbrod QC whom we have just seen in such a stooshie!
For the present, we must draw a veil, light as gossamer, across the first proper encounter of Theresa Somerville and her Dresden Shepherdess, whose name is Nikki Marianella, but we shall return to it;
because it is time to wind the clock back and be transported as on a Magic Carpet through time and space to Friday past, and far to the East, pausing briefly at his Chambers, where through the window we can spy on Martin Elginbrod QC, seemingly in a splenetic or apoplectic rage – ripping pages to shreds and scattering them wildly, throwing pink-beribboned briefs (not Ladies, Legal ones) into corners; roaring like a banshee, knocking over piles of books and other papers, even kicking the poor Office Moggie, who yelps and tries to slink into a nook – and why is Elginbrod so ferocious – he is not searching, for this manner of search would be futile – perhaps he has received bad news, or an anonymous threat, maybe an attempt at extortion with a threat to rattle his ubiety, his perception of his own fixed place in time and space, even to flay him of his riches, his monetary insulation, just as a whaler flense his catch of it's blubber; now that would certainly account for his frenetic behaviour, in which there is no sense of order or calm; we wonder who might have upset him so – and wondering, ever so slightly, for we do have some knowledge of these matter, we pat our Magic Carpet and ask it to move on, perhaps to a hostelry on the Southern fringe of the City, between the City Boundary and the Bypass, where other acquaintances of ours might be meeting, with the subject of their tryst, that same Martin Elginbrod QC whom we have just seen in such a stooshie!
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