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A Wit's Pilgrimage


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"Did you hear Dryden is attempting to rip me off, Richie?" A sandy blond complained as he flopped onto his back on the stage at BuckhurstMiddlesexDorset's Theater late at night. 


"Not Sir Flopling?" The dark-haired thirty-something replied, with astonishment.


"Yes, can you believe it!"


"Well, it cannot be as good for not being first." 


"Yet, still," George complained. It had taken him some time to pen that one, and it's success had been so great that he was not ready for someone to attempt to eclipse it yet. And not by doing the same thing. "One confidante said it's much the same with different names."


"'Egads! Any number of friends shall tear him to shreds over it then, and there will be a good amount of hilarity." There was a pause, "Why are we meeting here anyway."


"My wife..."


"Your rich wife," the earl chuckled. "The one that bought you a knighthood, or is it a baronetcy?"


"I'm finding...not rich enough for the bother."


"It's quite daring. I like it, whether it's escaping your wife or not." He sat down next to George and dangled his legs off the edge of the stage. "It's a bit cold in here to be half dressed, don't you think?" He winked. 



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