Surrounded by a heart-throb of chaotic memorabilia, Doctor Windmollen is startled by his semi-orphaned child. He seems perturbed by the intrusion, then, disarmed by Vina's likeness to the source of his bereavement (disregarding 'purple' locks), he dries his eyes and fondly waves his daughter in.

"Been peeling Concord grapes, my Sweet?"

Vina glimpses her reflection. Undistracted, she ignores her fickle topknot, shuns the mirror, and redirects her parboiled pique at dear old Dad.

"Know what I just got from some dumb dot com in America?"

"Is it white and warm and furry?"

"More like pasty, cold, and bald."

The look in Poppie's red-rimmed eyes expresses bafflement.

"Hmm; that's odd." He had entrusted Vina's nanny with delivery of his purchases. Could Bi Mun have switched the orders, somehow? "May I see this  artifact?"

"Nope.  Because I smashed it."

"And it didn't bleed?"

"It broke."

"Like 'discombobulated'?"

"Ja."

Her father laughs his "ha, ha, ha," upon discerning what occurred: a passing setback soon put right by the next day's mail.

*

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