Sentence The Onehundredandfifteenth
'I glimpsed a tiny Saurian
Wriggle through the Coppice;
She seemed bereft,
Gehenna-bound,
And vilified, though to my eyes,
She had made her sacrifice,
As all must do on this dead Earth,
Who've loved and won, and loved and lost,
And loved and do not count the cost,'
wrote Theresa on her postcard which she then handed to Eunice, the Telegram Girl, who promised to pop it in the box on her return to Gullane, for she was a genuinely kind-hearted and helpful girl, notwithstanding her being in thrall to Lulu, who occasionally worked as a driver and handy-woman for Izzy Dalkeith in her antiques business and also held sway over the twins Dora and Nora, who, 
now dressed as rather risqué Pirate Girls, were acting as stewardesses and showing passengers where they might stow their hand-luggage and dispose of used tissues and reminding everyone that smoking was only permitted on deck and to please use the boxes dotted hither and thither for their stubs and generally making themselves useful, ever under Lulu's watchful and proprietorial gaze (even though she was not even a member of The Lady's crew, never mind an Officer-of-the-Watch) – Hussy that she is – but I rather like something about her, a virility in her bearing, her hauteur, her stance though she is far too Bold for me.