The Journals of Barnabas Collins

I found Young Loomis eating the foie gras between two slices of spongy bread, slathered with white sauce. Any dyspepsia he experiences is of his own creation, and I look forward to extracting the cost from his wage.

Akin to the most irksome of French farces, just as I was reorienting Josette, who should come traipsing about but young Master David Collins.  David?  Hardly a name for a Collins.  But we live in times with more expansive views on marriage between cultures, and bully for that.  I digress.  We entered into a bit of a word duel over whether or not Josette were in the house, he thinking ghost, me thinking girl.  Tiring of it, I sent him scampering along.


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