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Also, the elitism of tennis combined with the Victorianism of corsets makes me suspicious of the kind of people who would wear this.
"Lady Thistlethorpe! What a pleasure to see you again! You are looking delightfully frail and delicate today."
Lady Thistlethorpe, with great effort, manages to breathe deeply enough through her tennis corset to raise her racket in greeting.
"Oh, Sir Caddington, you do know how to flatter a woman. Have you had any luck engaging a new upstairs parlor maid for Stuffybritches Manor?"
The tennis ball passes seven inches from Lady Thistlethorpe's gracefully outstretched arm and sails into Sir Caddington's monocle, cracking it in half.
"Alas, no. We thought we had found one at last, but she turned out to be a dirty papist. Caught her with those grubby little fingers on a rosary."
The ball speeds at Lady Thistlethorpe. She takes one step toward it on her tennis high heels, totters, and crashes to the ground. Sir Caddington nods his head approvingly.
"Damned fine woman, I've always said. Jeeves! Smelling salts!"
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