She began to pontificate slightly, hefting the wine-glass for emphasis. Her notebook was clutched beneath the elbow.
“And I might ask you to be good enough to deal with the washing for me while I have my shower...” She was smiling – albeit tightly – but there was a manic expression about her overly wide eyes, which blinked disconcertingly. The flow of words was devoid of punctuation.
“I haven’t thought of anything else to delegate quite yet...” The amount of tension contained in that small form was extraordinary. It looked as if she was about to fly in twenty-three directions at once.
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