It's been so long I've become a retrosexual.

As soon as it dawned on me that Leo's mom wasn't checking me out because I was an adorable specimen clearly out of Bruno's league, but because she thought I was some mail order cum receptacle, I was pissed.

Hester Earle and Violet Wayne were moving about the aisle with bundles of wheat-ears and streamers of ivy, for the harvest thanksgiving was shortly to be celebrated, while the vicar stood waiting for their directions on the chancel steps with a great handful of crimson gladioli.

It's certainly no disgrace to have been ripped off by a pretty-faced hustler--who among us has not mistaken nubility for genius?