… Our Father, Lady, Countess-Grae, ached fretful and pensive in her bilious Ostrich Feather quilt. Her pale face was pale. She was ailing but the money spiders still fell from her breasts in herds, as tiny, multi-limbed Bilberries, they scattered onto the ivory down all speckled and bright and abundant, shining like studded leather. Her lithe body basked in the wetness of her fever, twisted and wound in tangled sheets which bunched and gathered in knots over her shoulder then smoothed into gentle folds, swelling the busy spiders as they ran. A rather sickly looking leg limped from the covers, sickly but attractive. It relaxed and flopped to one side suggestively. The white pigs on the window sill blushed and snorted their disapproval.
“…But darling, how very clever of you…”
Earl Grae dripped petulantly from one of the wrought iron arches of the bed rest.
“Why, what can you mean…
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