Idylls of Enid

“Oh Mister Darcy,” mumbled Enid sleepily, “You get away wiv all yore bitchy posh twaddle, you. No, hain't 'aving nunna that wiv me, shame on you. Wot? Oh awrite then, go on, but mind you don't collapse me soufflés. Oooh. Oooh, Mister Darcy, mind what you’re doing with– oh, that’s just me rolling pin.”