It was the one about the evil teachers who convinced the students there were cameras recording every word and move throughout these labyrinthy halls and down the minor corridors. In every teacher’s favored cubby, in the strata of their tundra shall we remonstrate the pupils with a supple cane of willow on the buttocks, soon shamed in gala trousers of sassy bruises. Borne up by the pupils, he got straight up in my paglia, stricken ere we sailed into that port at Perelandra. Braickenridge was playing, he was serenading Layfleur, the starch queen or rather her heiress, you know darlingista? Come into my boudoir, I’ll spoon you nice and pretty. I’m Sally Ray your hostess. Don’t you recall, on the balcony, you baited me and hooted? I followed you here, didn’t I? And now you’re going to steal my purse (here Sally Ray hooked her pursestrap onto his arm and yanked away screaming THIEF THIEF—as evidenced by eyewitness testimony and bruise analysis) so I tell you what I’m gonna do—I’m gonna fake it so I seem to recall that goody two-shoes thing I did to fool you all just a moment ago, I seem to have lost all memory of it at the moment, but I am sure that it happened. Now I can’t even visualize it. Now it’s gone, but I’m confident it will bounce up again. In the meantime here’s Eve and her seven Adams.