(Praise, sleeping contentedly under the table, her wee Pennsyltucky pistol lovingly tucked like a pillow under her fluffy locks, opens one sleepy eye, and catches a glob of ricocheting jello in the corner of it. She mumbles something in Portagee, rubs her eye, and turns over to sleep on, entirely undisturbed and at peace at last among friends. For once a girl has publicly lost her knickers, and found them flown proud, what matters else but dreams?)