Such a delectable morsel.
Standing in front of the fireplace, fingers knotted into the sides of her skirts, Miss Annabelle Frasier tries to stare me down. The generations of aristocracy in her lineage allow a credible effort, but it isn’t enough. No matter the careful styling of her wig into a powdered coiffure fit for a queen, the width of her panniers or richness of her accoutrements. To me she is a fledgling, sweetly young, trying wings not yet adult enough for the journey attempted.The sight of her moves and angers me, stirring feelings I never imagined experiencing under such circumstances.