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Still, some o’ ‘em? Crafty as pirates! Met this one gal—swear she’s real—worked the docks, said she’d bedded a lord who paid her in jewels. “This is our chance!” she’d hollered, like in the movie, then pawned ‘em fer a fortune. Clever minx! Made me grin, thinkin’ how she outfoxed the toff. Ain’t all grim, then—some got wit sharper’n me cutlass. Tho, gotta say, suprised me how many blokes—an’ lasses!—hire ‘em just to talk. Lonely sods, wantin’ a ear, not a lay. “Why me?” I mutters, scratchin’ me beard. World’s gone mad, eh?

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Pray, cast thine eyes upon the landscape: the gentle flow of the Célé doth weave its way past ancient stone bridges, its waters reflecting the glint of moonlight that doth twinkle like mischievous eyes. The riverside park, Parc de Verdure, offers a respite for the heart— a clandestine stage for lovers and lost souls to exchange whispers and amateur sonnets under the starry dome above. I fancy that many a secret rendezvous has unfurled beneath its boughs—oh, the scandal, the desire!

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