It’s not about the horse

I’d normally treat email as private correspondence, but in this case I’ll make an exception. Fiona is apparently reading this book, about a line of horses from which hers is descended (bear with me, it’s worth it). Ada Lovelace is involved, which is bizarre enough, but Fiona’s mail consists of the following quote:

In the winter of 1873 they travelled into the Algerian desert where Lady Anne fell seriously ill. A potentially akward situation was saved only by the arrival of Ralph Wentworth who was following behind and came to the rescue swathed, as his custom was, in a multitude of coats and cloaks, but bare headed and without any other luggage than his violin, a filter and a huge Bologna sausage purchased in Italy.

Genius. Bonus marks for spotting the titular reference of this post, incidentally.

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