Claxton on Stokes

Salisbury steak with rue of allspice and comeuppance of stokes and barley, purloined from Monsieur Alcan’s side-pocket, the fob upon which and where he kept his timepiece and minatory, not a place for the faint of tart or ossuary, shit-makers Ives-on-eaves and that bastard James Von Logan, Jesuit braggart. Tisa ate nothing but greens and blues and the odd tripe-hoar, batched with prickly-pear and oil of so-far-alls-well-that-ends-swell. I much refer the potter’s pie, said Keeves, his tie roundabout the wren of his chin, a flagon of Tankard’s in his trouser’s lap; so much for gemstones and cuvee of spec on sight, Keeves intoned, to not a one in particular nor within glaring distance of Jiffy on Leeds, where that Claxton Moor-cum-Able drove Parnell to the postern in Bloom’s Mercury Landau, silly vanguards the lot of hem, O so I’ve been scold, ex pluribus Von Keeves and lager.