Sentence The Threehundredandseventyninth

From his Belvedere, where he liked to work on his autobiography on sunny days, Sir Pantagruel MacFarlane had an excellent view of his irresolute amanuensis as she cried “proot! proot!” and waved her arms, in vain efforts to move the patient donkeys, who seemed to accept her behaviour as just one more example of the stupidity of the bipeds with whom they had the misfortune to share this

small patch of the Earth's surface (actually, their name for the planet on which we all live is Hee-Haw) and they chewed placidly and occasionally flicked their tails, or twitched their ears, or slowly blinked, while Josephine – Josie to her husband, Jo-Jo to her friends in the Quilting group, and simply Jo to Sir Pantagruel while she was sucking his cock or astride him on the sheepskin mat before the fireplace – got all hot and bothered and MacFarlane found that rather stirring, as he stubbed out his morning cigar and called out for her to forget about the donkeys and come in for some urgent dictation!