Caracalla and Geta

Caracalla and GetaSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Welcome Footstepspromise of spring
quads -- all I could think of, strangely enough, was My Ladyship. I envisioned her beneath -- no, atop -- Peter Greene, or Maurice Stoker, or Eblis Eierkopf, or Lucky Rexford, in some lubricious exhibition on the Living-Room dais. No, no, after all it was none of them; or having serviced them to exhaustion, now she stood, slack-mouthed with love; expelled their mingled seed with a tricky jerk, and stretched forth her arms to her fated, fateful lover, who rose up glitter-eyed upon the dais and enfolded her body in his hard black cloak. And I was no longer jealous, no, I was relieved; joyous, even, for her sake, when I heard the muffled cry of her delight and knew she was infused for good and all with the germ of Passage. I wanted to die.
"You can't eat that!" a scholar shouted, clawing at the strips that hung likepasta from my jaws.
"He can shove it!" my grandfather snapped."Independence, he calls it!" He grabbed at his wrapper. "Where's my aides?" he demanded of his former receptionist. "Get this flunkèd hair-shirt off me!"
"Weren't they with you at the barns, sir?" she said.