The continuing saga of two women, their men, and a whole lot of hats.

The Red Red Rose…

There was one man in the small town of Bridgeport known for his prose and his personal stench. His clothes, favoring tatters, his hat, a crumpled stovepipe, Edgar Stills wandered the streets, their entirety his home, flirting with women young and old, gender, his lone demographic. While in mass, the ladies of The Women’s League picked and talked about his shameful life but, once captured alone, be they married or not, his silver tongue lavished them in the riches only he could bestow. Giggles and titters his mainstay, the cavalier spared no expense when courting the opposite sex. His finishing flourish? The presentation of a red, red rose, “Whose color could not compare to the sanguine blush upon my lady’s cheek nor the scarlet stain upon her pillowed lips.” And though he had yet to court Temperance, his antics never failed to draw from her, reward, for she, a consummate observer, was often privy to his shows and found them endlessly inspiring.

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