Mrs. Bennet, utterly scandalized, gasped, adjusting her bonnet with great indignation. “Inspector Plod! Such disgraceful insinuations! My eyes, as any respectable lady’s, are exactly where they ought to be—firmly upon my face!”
Charles II, smirking, smoothed his cuffs. “Indeed, misplaced eyes would make courtly matters most difficult.
. Bennet, utterly scandalized, gasped, adjusting her bonnet with great indignation. “Inspector Plod! Such disgraceful insinuations! My eyes, as any respectable lady’s, are exactly where they ought to be—firmly upon my face!”
Charles II, smirking, smoothed his cuffs. “Indeed, misplaced eyes would make courtly matters most difficult.”
Jane Austen, lips twitching in restrained amusement, mused, “A most peculiar notion, though certainly not one fit for polite society.”
Cinderella, wide-eyed, murmured, “Oh, how would one admire a ballroom if one’s gaze was entirely misplaced?”
Virgin Mary, serene as ever, simply said, “Some things are meant to remain unchanged.”
George Washington, adjusting his coat, declared, “An orderly arrangement, as a nation—and facial features—should be!”
Meanwhile, Mr. Twiddle, wobbling precariously, gasped, “But imagine the possibilities! Eyes upon elbows! Eyes upon—”
Mrs. Twiddle, arms firmly crossed, sighed, “No, dear.
Mr. Plod, eyes narrowing with investigative scrutiny, tapped his notepad once more. “Are my shoulders my knees, Mrs. Bennet?” he demanded, his voice thick with suspicion.
Mrs. Bennet, utterly scandalized, clutched at her bonnet with great theatrical distress. “Inspector! Such dreadful nonsense! A proper gentleman has his shoulders upon his shoulders and his knees precisely where knees belong! To suggest otherwise—why, it is positively unthinkable!”
Charles II, suppressing a smirk, adjusted his cuffs. “One must adm
Ah, Mr. Darcy, ever the reluctant participant in balls and parties, yet somehow always at the center of them! If he were leading a letter, one might imagine his words to be as carefully measured as his manner—reserved, deliberate, yet betraying a depth of feeling.
Mrs. Bennet, upon hearing of this, adjusted her bonnet sharply. “A letter from Mr. Darcy? Leading the conversation? Well! That is quite the departure from his usual brooding silence!”
Charles II, amused, smoothed his cuffs. “One must admire a gentleman who chooses his words with precision.”
Jane Austen, thoughtful as ever, mused. “A letter led by Mr. Darcy? I daresay it would contain just the right balance of propriety and restrained passion!”
Cinderella, tilting her head, whispered. “Perhaps it is an invitation to a ball—or an apology, long overdue?”
Virgin Mary, ever serene, murmured. “Some things are meant to remain unchanged.”
George Washington, steady and resolute, declared. “An orderly arrangement, as a nation—and correspondence—should be!”
Meanwhile, Mr. Twiddle, wobbling precariously, gasped. “But imagine the possibilities! A letter that rearranges itself! A ball where—”
Mrs. Twiddle, arms firmly crossed, cut him off sharply. “No, dear.”
Mr. Plod, scribbling furiously, muttered, “Justice demands confirmation—Mr. Darcy’s letter must be analyzed thoroughly!”
And so, as Mr. Darcy’s words, whether reluctant or impassioned, took their place in history, the grand inquiry into social gatherings, elegant letters, and the balance of propriety continued.