At the restaurant the agent provocateur had the aide-de-camp bring over the a la carte menu. Enroute he saw her, the femme fatale. Brunette, gamine, risque, but a rendezvous would be a wonderful fait accompli. The attache critiqued, too chic. Well then, perhaps the petite, blonde debutante. The cuisine du jour was beef au jus. Showing esprit de corps, they ordered. Then, the faux au pair appeared for a de rigueur matinee encore. Touche!

Where is ya'll's sense of humour? The Pascale tale was great. Us US femmes could use a little releasing from the Victorian mores that are so deeply ingrained.