With rhetoric more suited to a nursery, the recalcitrant library patron defended his namby-pamby colleague against the institution's equally undownable mistress, ultimately resorting to a rather unstylish bit of ploce: "Fine! A fine is just fine! Fine him!"
After working through the night to winnow out lingering typos from her chef-d'oeuvre, she realized caffeine would not be a sufficient roborant and called a dear friend who was something of a flaneur in the hopes that his international peregrinations had at least left him with a good recipe for a sure-fire (and mostly legal) pick-me-up.
Feeling like a disposable crew of myrmidons sent to slaughter or be slaughtered, the newly minted Macy's elves sat quietly by while the self-appointed pundit of the season sententiously spouted bromides about "niceness" and "naughtiness," but they knew they would need more than a fledgling esprit de corps and some velvet shoes to outlast an attack from the ceaselessly sniveling enemy hordes.
Though happy to affect hebetude while badgered by disputatious atheists, the sleek clergyman could endure no digs regarding his meticulous attire and upon insult, would defend both couture and his wounded amour propre with a vigor his congregants never dreamed he possessed.
Surrounded by gauzy, glittering, glorious heaps that under his talented needle would have been reborn into a parade of couture gowns and other sartorial excesses, the tristful sempster sat and sighed and lamented his fatal decision to ignore the recommendations of the rapporteur for the garment-workers' union.
When at last she could hide in the kitchen no longer, June forced the more temerarious fibers of her nature to supplant her dismay and she began to greet the foundation's patrons, shilling and imbibing in equal measure, and inevitably arriving before "the Dragon," videlicet, a massive individual of correspondingly Brobdingnagian assets who habitually held court among the earnest mendicants of local nonprofits.
She experienced grief as an unpredictable cascade of discrete agonies and, not believing in alchemy, could credit neither the pedantic physician's pronouncement that "the Gestalt of this loss will reveal itself in the fullness of time" nor his assurances that she would come to see her current anguish as a blessing in disguise--"a benison lying doggo" as he termed it.
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