another failure
Congratulations to all winners, & for John's benefit here's Bridget's sad billet-doux in full:
Dear Mr Rochester,
I suppose it's awfully 'forward' of me to be writing to you on spec, it's not that we've actually met or anything, but you have, you know, this reputation – oh, I don't mean the thing about the potty wife upstairs, I expect that's just a wicked rumour, and in any case if you did I'm sure you'd have a good reason, no, the word is you are sex on legs, and I've been rather short in that department lately. Well, for a bloody long time. Ever get depressed and want to do tons of smoking, drinking and comfort eating? Probably not. Even if there's a cackling hag swinging from the rafters. Which I'm sure there isn't. The point is, I've got a bit of a thing about you. Actually, quite a lot of a thing. So is there something we can do together?
Yours,
Bridget Jones.
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