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Dear Cassandra,

It is a truth universally contemplated, though by no means assured that, when a lady of ample comprehension, sound habits, and a not unreasonable expectation of harmonious order in the society she keeps about her, finds herself transported by means of a wormhole into what can only be some sort of parallel, deranged, and alternative future to which the race of Dr. Johnson and Alexander Pope has made no contribution, and when too in the process of being sucked through the aforementioned wormhole she has also struck herself upon the head,  she may very well find herself distractedly using without consideration of polite norms or even her own sense of personal standards such unwonted turns of phrase as, “Hell yes, my name’s Jane Frigging Austen!”

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