A busty, bespectacled blonde stalks off at the start of Legends of Evil, Anne Caulfleld's B-moviesque fantasia on the evils of British imperialism.

The army wants potential soldiers to enlist.

All these, with many more, she deftly wrought Into gay wreaths and posies passing fair; Then from the inner sacristy outbrought Vases of simplest clay, but shapes most rare, And round the statue's base, as quick as thought, …

This ſet the old Gentlewoman a Laughing at me, as you may be ſure it would: Well, Madam, Forſooth, ſays ſhe, Gibing at me, you would be a Gentlewoman, and how will you come to be a Gentlewoman? What will you do it by your Fingers Ends?