An arrangement of electrons, a mess of mesons, in your cranium, Sir Spatterwit.
There must be blah-diddie-blah-blah (statistics, pal) happy homosexual hours for housewives and houris
ergo
we, Wylie, have witnessed Onesuch.
What a premise! What a casual conclusion.
O Lydian ease!
O languorous Lesbos!
(O legislators!
You left out the ladies!
And our legally innocent Yvonne has homed to Pasadena's passes, also
Healthy, wealthy and wise.)
Must it not be assumed that blah people are happy and blah people are given to such excursions, wherefore blah per centum of the excursionists are happy?
Certainly.
But Yvonne?
What is she?
Sir Psychologist, Lord Hack, Keeper of the Happy Ending, can you not also hypothesize a hundred different valid denouements?
Certainly.
When the poor, unknown child returns, what Weltschmerz may not seize hold upon her? What nostalgia? What fantasy or recollections? What esoteric envies? What odd curiosities? What cooling after the confidences? What illogical new distastes? What unexpected spousely piques? What dither? What clandestine or common experiment with all what unsweet ensuite?