This morning, I was found literally dead.
It was Cousin Trevor, in the library, with the bottle of brandy.
It really was. After a surprisingly good meal at a local hotel with Rubychoo's rellies, the ladies (Rubychoo) went home to referee the children, while the gentlemen repaired to the hotel's plush library with coffee and a bottle of most excellent brandy.
No one said you are supposed to stop drinking the brandy at some point.
I was merely acting within the rules and have done nothing wrong.
