In concession, and his aggravated state is more than helpful, fingers
tighten around the bags of bread he hauls from the Inn towards Mrs.
Dunwiddie’s residence. Boots slog across a worn out pathway, dirt kick-
ing in front of him, particles sticking to slacks and shoes of others in the
crowd.
   With the sack slung across his bag, the neck of the bag tight across
the bend of his shoulder, his gaze remain on his free hand, thumb to his
index finger, scratching away at the grease stains   Â
    Arm bending into his shoulder, the bag of bread releases from his grip
in a moment of flounder. He sees pink and lace and all things feminine,Â
laying across from him in the dirt path. He sees disgust in her lips and dirt
in the bread basket.
       ❝ You’ve got to be kidding me !! ❞