Patrice hitched up her chemise’s loop.
You saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own…”
You knew just what I was there for
You heard me sayin’ a prayer for
Someone I could really care for…”
Circling the square’s fountain were several gaudily decorated, horse drawn caravans. Patrice sauntered towards the corral. “If I can overhear something of interest to the Arkham Advertiser,” she thought, “maybe that letch of a subeditor will pay me for the story!” When she was sure there was no one about she darted behind a wooden wheel and, trembling, stood with her back to an awning. She slid along until close to its open flaps. Madame Mina was speaking:
“… and if those bastards from the newspaper come here again, you know what to do, don’t you, Lucreez?”
“Take them to the woods and feed ‘em to the pigs?”
“Yes! Good boy.”
Patrice clapped her hand over her mouth and, knees turned to jelly, sank down upon the soft (?) cobblestones, her nose inches away from the hocks of a chestnut pony; her stockings felt damp, tentatively she glanced downwards and saw moist, malodorous lumps.
The elderly couple smiled up at Patrice.
“Would you care for a ham sandwich young lady?”
“Thank you.” Patrice nibbled at a corner of the crusty bread.
The woman leaned forward to inspect Patrice’s skirt. “You appear to have straw and mud stuck to you, here, allow me.” Before Patrice could stop the woman she had plucked away the straw, rubbing the mud stuck to it between her thumb and forefinger. Frowning, she smelt her finger, and then jerked it away with a look of disgust upon her face, “Horseshit!”
Patrice walked swiftly away.