280

Despite the incessant naysaying of Young Loomis, the evening is thus far a roaring success.  Each member of the household has conformed to his role with an eerie magnetism.  Mother is as elegant as I recall.  Father is there in body, if not spirit.  My uncle inspires the same animosity from me.  (And, while that is not a welcomed emotion, it — along with his escorting of Miss Winters — completes the analog.)  And Miss Winters?

Not only does she seem released in all regards by the dress of my time, she says that she wisher she had lived back then, that she felt like Josette, and that she delighted in the sensation.  So unlike Miss Evans.

I must hurry back to the proceedings, but I wanted to record the victory as it takes place.  And, Young Loomis, since I know you’re reading this behind my back (due to the redolent aroma of your oily fingerprints), I hope you take this as a bracing insight on how to pierce illusions and enlighten souls.  It is a lesson that will serve you well.

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