Poor Sophie has been laid out with the ague lately. And what is ague, you say? Oh, dear reader, what isn't ague? Yes, it could be fever. Possibly fatigue. And let us not rule out the fact it could be that state of mind when one is almost turning twelve. But why should we trouble ourselves with the sordid history of a word only the French have any business to pronounce? Voyons donc! Suffice it to say every great heroine seems to have her dance card monopolized by this insipid, groping rake from time to time.
She was quite weakened, really. The only thing she could muster was a needle and thread, along with the occasional request for bon bons, smelling salts, and the express desire that no one, least of all Mr. Darcy, be privvy to her suffering. As long as the Tollipop headmistress was intimately privvy, such would suffice.
But look how nicely her fancywork is coming along! It would seem Miss Sophie is well suited to languish on the chesterfield every now and then.
And when our heroine had recovered her strength sufficient to venture out-of-doors, didn't she have the grandest satchel in all the land?
Which brings me to my own fancywork...you know, the one that is being french-dotted from here to Kiev? Perhaps a day on the chesterfield, surrounded by bon bons and the soothing ministrations of three young candy stripers is the very prescription for a cure to this eternal work in progress.
