Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The letters of Countess LuAnn

Dearest Betthaney,

Woe to the woman who speaks ill of a paramour, woe to the woman that darest speak at all. The only ray which can illumine every darkness is the smile of thy fair Count, the only sweetness which can comfort in misfortune, and dry thy tears, is the ecstasy of pure silence, speak so softly as to not be heard, so as he may find your lips the rosiest of shade, and wish to touch your cheek with only the softest slight of hand, and upon the rarest of times when it is divined to utter a syllable, do so with care, do so with eloquence and poesy, say but a few words, perchance he make think you beastly. For you shall weep, you shall grown, you shall be overcome, and bemoan the day that you dared think yourself too equal to men, for that misbegotten day, you too shall be beheaded.

Your most fairest Countess,
  LuAnn de Lesseps

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