"Ohmigod! The robe!" She sped over to the cauldron and looked inside. The level of the liquid was *definitely* much lower. Somehow the robe had ab...orbed several gallons of the smelly substance. Frantically she dug the sopping material out of the half-empty container and rushed it over to the sink. It LOOKED all right as she rinsed it with cold, fresh water, but there was absolutely no way to tell for sure. "Now what do I do?" she pondered miserably. A lot of effort had gone into this. Then we watched in silence as a uniformed bugler played the “Last Post”. The only sound for the next two minutes was the odd church clock belatedly striking the hour (Stamford had five medieval parishes, and still has churches to match), and then he picked up his bugle to blow “Reveille”. The came the Laurence Binyon tribute, the fourth verse from his 1914 poem “For the Fallen”:“They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old.Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.At the going. We then were generally talking about business, home, etc. He was asking a lot of questions and also asked me the home address. I didn’t give and got a little skeptical about his intentions.But then out of nowhere, he started showing me his wife’s pics. Some were of her doing yoga and she also was a model for Indian gym wear online. Those pics with skimpy gym wear showing her perfect figure was getting me happy. He could see that spark and smile on my face while seeing them.He then asked me. ? John tugged me forward, I had to bunch my skirt to avoid stumblingas I crawled. ?No one will see you cunt, the office is empty.? I reared back and grabbedfor the chain. ?Please, you can't do this.? I should have expected it, but John's backhandswipe across my face caught me completely off guard. I couldn't react, my mindwas racing as I felt the pain in my cheek. ?On your hands and knees slut!? I didn't have any choice but to fall forwardand place my hands on the ground. I could feel the rough.