Seldom is there a quiet moment in the clan of Windsor, whose comings and goings never cease to delight the subjects of their tiny sceptered isle.
This one-cylinder Barnum, this tower of sneers in tasseled shoes, this Shubert Alley Catiline, this mustachioed thane of the sceptered aisle, this Greek god, this other Edam, this.
Somewhere beneath our vision of sceptered monarchs in their pillared palaces, it can be surmised, rests a hobbled woman upon a bed of tortoise shells.