The evening opens, the scene begins and the Pratt pack enters the stage. A plea for precedence in an industrial age, the ides of winter, nineteen hundred, forty and three.
Liquid crystals blow a bright and bluish glow musing erudition’s quest with a Bing. There was a time not long ago when Dohner donned Ceasar’s crown. Is it true, pray do tell? Was dear Lippincott, his head in the clouds, a brutish beau? Had he loved his king or loved the heir he found?