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.]