His days of slumming it with Lady Chatterley bespoke nothing in the manner of this or that affair of metallic disks under the bed post.

A magnificent poem could haunt the terrestrial quagmire for eons on end but still not do justice to the bowling alley in the basement. She blistered his behind with toils of affirmation, and then the sympathies rose for a rival, and he asked for a duel in the sand. His rival obliged, but by the time they had their seconds put the thing together, they had forgotten their quarrel and fired their shots into the air. Five seconds later, two geese fell from the sky, directly landing on the head of each belligerent, killing one and maiming the other for life. Small recompence, but thirty-seven years made little difference in the outcome.

Chatterley chatted in the driveway about the plan to feed the peasants and assuage the nobles. Lady Chatterley had a clear domination over the situation, but three weeks later, she sold her ecstatic vision of parodies to Darrin, and she’s been there ever since.