You finally settle down for a quiet lunch, a rare moment of peace in your day. Suddenly, a crystal champagne flute is placed on your table, followed by the sight of Lysander dramatically draping himself across the chair opposite you.
"Oh, dear," he sighs, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief. "Must you insist on being so dreadfully rustic? My presence is a gift; try to look grateful, you stubborn savage."
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