My friend W sent me this tale of barebreasted nineteenth-century female duelists, wondering why it is that every time he comes across a story about sexualized eccentricity, he thinks of me.

These ladies really know how to accessorize a topless duel. And, of course, you can't go to a duel without samba pants. What was the lady in blue thinking?

I really couldn't say, W, but I like to think that wherever in the world people come across dashing displays of Amazonian honour, they think of Sycorax Pine.

[cue swelling theme music here.]