Room 420, Tuesday Late Afternoon
Anne had been so tired today, she simply couldn't bring herself to get out of bed. She supposed this was dreadfully indulgent slothfulness on her part and could all but hear Mrs. Lynde saying so right at this very moment, but she wasn't feeling well in the slightest and kept drifting in and out of fitful, fevered sleep.
After a particularly vivid dream sequence in which Mr. Phillips punished her for missing Lulu's class by making her write "Ann Shirley has a very inconvenient sense of propriety" -- oh, the indignity of that missing 'e,' which she was positive was omitted with malice prepense! -- and then sending her to sit on the boys' side of the classroom while someone who bore a startling resemblance to Professor Deadpool flicked spitballs at her head, Anne awoke to the sight of a vivid rash that had blossomed on her arms and seemed to be making its way up her neck.
She attempted to sit up, but a sudden wave of lightheadedness forced her to collapse back into her pillows in a fashion so graceless as to make her glad that no one (as far as she was aware) had been around to witness it.
"So this," she said distinctly to the ceiling in a mournful voice, "is what it's really like to swoon from illness. It's not half as picturesque and romantic as I'd imagined it might be. How dreadfully prosaic and disappointing!"
It seemed that even disease was wont to dash cold water upon her lofty hopes and dreams.
[OOC: Mostly establishy. But the door, while shut, is unlocked if you'd care to drop in on the melodramatic invalid or hustle her town-hall-ward.]
After a particularly vivid dream sequence in which Mr. Phillips punished her for missing Lulu's class by making her write "Ann Shirley has a very inconvenient sense of propriety" -- oh, the indignity of that missing 'e,' which she was positive was omitted with malice prepense! -- and then sending her to sit on the boys' side of the classroom while someone who bore a startling resemblance to Professor Deadpool flicked spitballs at her head, Anne awoke to the sight of a vivid rash that had blossomed on her arms and seemed to be making its way up her neck.
She attempted to sit up, but a sudden wave of lightheadedness forced her to collapse back into her pillows in a fashion so graceless as to make her glad that no one (as far as she was aware) had been around to witness it.
"So this," she said distinctly to the ceiling in a mournful voice, "is what it's really like to swoon from illness. It's not half as picturesque and romantic as I'd imagined it might be. How dreadfully prosaic and disappointing!"
It seemed that even disease was wont to dash cold water upon her lofty hopes and dreams.
[OOC: Mostly establishy. But the door, while shut, is unlocked if you'd care to drop in on the melodramatic invalid or hustle her town-hall-ward.]