Sentence The Threehundredandthirtysixth
And, strange as it may seem to anyone unversed in the micro-complexities of Quantum Collision Theory, it was at just about the same time as the party including Thomas Learmonth was watching the remarkable reunion of Patience Scott with her rag-doll, quite independently of each other, Tavish Dalwhinnie, Bernie Westwater and Tammy Shanter were cautiously entering the Abbey Grounds by the cart-way, in search of the Almoner, while Sir Parlane MacFarlane was entering by the main gate with the purpose of visiting his good friend and fellow member of The Golden Ring, Father Pandelion Gillyfeather, Abbot of Melrose who rose in greeting as his fellow-debauchee popped his
head around the thick oaken door of the Father Abbot's Office: “my good fellow,” said Father Gillyfeather as he rose in greeting, and closed the door on the droning psittacism of the Matins ritual (he had never found the Benedictine Rule either to his taste or his habits) and invited MacFarlane to take a seat, knowing already that this was not a social visit, but, rather, part of their complot, made all the more propitious by recent events and that now was the time to levigate their options and settle on the most beneficial two or three, so he was startled when Sir Parlane opened up on him: “imbecile, dolt,
knave, rascal, thou art an eater of broken meats, a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue, one-trunk-inheriting slave, one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, single of wit, double of chin and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch, one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition, what were your men thinking of, if indeed they are capable of rational thought, of following simple instructions – assuming you gave them the proper instructions – their task was quite clear: batter him to death and then bring the body here, as if they had stumbled upon it, so what went wrong? why was he left? did he simply get up and walk away? or was he found by another who took him to safety somewhere? is he likely to turn up and identify your men as his assailants? call yourself an Abbot? you'd be better off managing a Convent, man! you're an old woman yourself! though hardly fit even to be a Mother Superior, I believe the local washerwomen are superior to you in intellect!”