wing his brow with unwavering determination, tapped his notepad once more. “Mrs. Bennet—where are your toes now?”
Mrs. Bennet, positively scandalized, adjusted her bonnet with dramatic emphasis, as though steadying herself against such preposterous nonsense.
“Inspector Plod! My toes are precisely where they ought to be—below my ankles, upon the ground, and never—under any circumstance—misplaced upon my shoulders!”
Charles II, amused, adjusted his cuffs.
“One must admire certainty—even in matters of appendage placement.”
Jane Austen, lips twitching, mused.
“Mrs. Bennet’s steadfastness is truly remarkable—though the inquiry itself is utterly ridiculous.”
Cinderella, blinking rapidly, whispered.
“Toes must remain fitted for glass slippers! Imagine the catastrophe otherwise!”
Virgin Mary, ever serene, murmured.
“Some things are meant to remain unchanged.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Twiddle, wobbling precariously, gasped.
“But imagine the possibilities! Toes where fingers should be! A world where—”
Mrs. Twiddle, arms firmly crossed, cut him off immediately.
“No, dear.”