I must remember to oil my rifle

I awoke melancholy, here from a nightmare about my mother. I barely knew her, but she haunts me still, a ghostly figure in my dreams, her teat long grown cold.

This afternoon I am supposed to go on a shooting lark with a tiresome acquaintance. He will doubtless brag of his recent conquest of some obscure countess in Monserrat, or his prowess at whist.

Ah Maman! When will the night terrors stop? I have scarcely the energy to drag myself to the solarium and prepare for this onerus social obligation. A piping hot Turkish coffee is just the ticket. I anticipate its bitter fire.

I see that the lady S–– has sent me another of her cloyingly perfumed social cards. Is it possible she is still unaware that I detest her? Surely not. Still, her egomania knows no bounds, and perhaps she simply cannot comprehend how vile she is.

* * * *

After fifteen minutes of ringing distractedly, Emil still fails to answer my summons. My ire swells within me. He is in for a sound drubbing! Without coffee, my suffering can only blossom.

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