CHAPTER suppose we say FORTY FOUR
Not the Life of Sir Roger Bloxam
Aha! so that excites your curiosity. Oho! O no! this book is not for women, I swear it by the sacred tibia of Emmeline Pankhurst so I will tell you all, for I love you as you must love me for having spared you those first forty-three chapters. To it! then! To it!
Knobsworthy Bottoms is a delightful village in Derbyshire, where the Necks come from. Nonsense; it is in Devonshire, where the cream comes from. and what has it to do with our story? Nothing. Our story? Yes, yours and mine — yours and mine — yours and mine. Pause.
Another pause a little longer.
A short snappy pause.
A pause of languorous libido.
A pause of crescendo irritation.
A plain pause.
Five bars more.
Yes! that is settled. But I will not tell you what our story is about. I need not, because it is Just Our Story. Moreover I would a word with you: this. I will conceal our story; even when you have read it all through you will not know that I have written it. I will not have Sordello make mouths at my speech, any more than Catullus. But I will play Puck to you, my beauties; I will lead you through fire and water, air and earth, on a mad chase after a bauble. I will play the Comedy of Pan upon you, lovely listeners; and I will begin by deluding you into the belief that Our Story concerns NOT
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
SIR ROGER BLOXAM.
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