Jefferson Marlowe was in the middle of cutting his toenails, when a postdwarf poked his hand round the door and thrust a missive into the tent.
“Darling Jefferson,
I yearn for you, for your body, for the tender ecstasy of your embrace.
Meet me by the dandelion field at 2pm.
Forever yours,
Hermione.”
Jefferson did not know any Hermiones, but he quite liked the sound of the letter. Particularly the bit about his body. News of his exploits must have spread across Berynthia...which was understandable.
He pulled out his fobwatch. Half past one. Just time to make it.
He brushed his toenails down the side of the mattress, saddled up his horse and rode off.
As our hero swept towards the horizon, the postdwarf crawled out of the bushes and made his way towards the tent.
Good old Jefferson, he thought, as he loaded his rucksack.
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