A 249 Word Sentence With Viscount Odin Prudence Monroe

It was noon when I told her -- her being a woman named Roberta who is prone to hysterics at the sheer mention of Monaco, bastard children, blonds, brunettes, tabby cats, or breakfast cereal due to the rather infamous actions of her eldest son at the end of the oh so harrowing France-Australia war -- of the very dead gentleman now adorning her critically acclaimed gnome sanctuary (a body which came to be in its present state, oh Reader, when a young, vivacious, albeit paranoid and often ridiculous woman from a small Minnesota town, who decided to leave her childhood home to join this small grouping of wayward individuals in Montana, including the befuddled Roberta, in the hopes of escaping the seemingly ever-present feeling of dread that stemmed from her growing realization that the world existed beyond the scope of her limited and often quite morose imagination, perceived she was in danger and being stalked as she walked home from her unfulfilling employment as the town’s assistant deputy sidewalk and bike lane inspector - a familiar feeling for this paranoid lass which tends to manifest itself most aggressively in the evening hours of a mildly comfortable day with a 50% chance of rain after ten, when she decided for safety’s sake to attack the assailant that was “undoubtedly” prowling behind with her purse bayonet, killing him instantly with his last thought being one of confusion as to why this crazed woman stabbed him while he was walking to his sister’s house.)