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Her name says quite a lot as her brother, the little Lord, is a namby-pamby dressed in velvet with a lace fichu around his neck, over which his fair ringlets tumble winsomely. Her refernce to "biddies" shows contempt for the true Bridgets, the daughters of Erin, the hoi-polloi who don't call themselves Madam. The foray into discussing hair colour (or the have been lack of it), also seized upon by Lord Hutman when expostulating about Joan Walsh's hair, suggests subliminal envy. You are both bald and your desperate search for a shock of hair, through lotions and potions, has led you, as a last resort, to wearing some shocking wigs. Madam, I think yours is askew at the moment from persistently leaning over the keyboard. Your devotion to the Baroque one is heart-warming. Not that I'm suggesting for one moment that you're tipsy, but Angostura Bitters is great for a hangover and settling the stomach. The transition from Madam Defarge to Madam Fauntleroy suggests that old film "The Two Faces of Eve" and the process must be unsettling. I hope the wigs aren't made from the hair of poor young girls in Indian villages to be sold to the elites of the western world. Perish the thought!
