Callow, coarse, vile and vacant. Your epitaph, sir.

Dear sir,
Your confusion likely stems from a misapprehension regarding the nature of the aetherically-transmitted communications with which I routinely contact not only your era, but those which recede so far into the future that the stout syntax and humble grammar of English itself collapses under a vast onslaught of…

(Revives!)
You, sir, are the victim of subterfuge! Well I recall your nimble and audacious pilferage! Return at once the hairpin and gloves you made away with at our last encounter or I shall summon my footman and his terrible blunderbuss!

I would complain that a Viking is so displaced from my era that they could not possibly claim any knowledge of my well-being, except that to do so would be the most obvious sort of hypocrisy, considering my own penchant for pan-temporal commentary. However, I must observe in the interests of strictest accuracy that…

Oh you poor dear. Nothing good (or even adequate) ever came out of the latter works of Mr. L.- even his revisions of earlier triumphs are unworthy of your attention. Do seek out the original versions have you the time, inclination and opportunity.

Indeed!

It is my sad duty to inform you that you are in error. I recall the fanciful production you allude to quite clearly, and the final line is certainly "Yub-nub".

I believe that is a type of pulley.

I admit to considerable melancholy as I observe that the final episode of the 'Game of Thrones' was marred by a sadly unworthy passage. In that I am an observer of your period from, as must be apprehended from your perspective, the considerable (if not distant) past, it is quite simple for me to sample the entirety…

Whatever for? Ah, I believe I have surmised why you expect I might suffer outrage- the year sixty-nine Anno Domini is the year of the death of the sainted Apostle Peter! Well, I believe you will find I am not some species of phlegmatic Tory, and therefore not much given to outcry over the fate of ancient Christian…

One must have some sort of expression for one's baser nature. I myself sometimes read 'Punch', although never in mixed company, with guests or in front of the servants.

Well said! There is never any excuse for what I assume was decidedly puerile humour. I must assume as a matter of necessity, for, to embrace fully the dubious virtue of bald honesty, I am quite uncertain of the actual meaning of virtually all of what was said. Surely one's sex, be it male or female, presupposes…

(Faints dead away)

When you truly need me, look for me… here.
(Gently places hand over HipsterDBag's heart)
Gracious, that is somewhat more solidly composed than I, in my ignorance, had assumed. You are not a tradesman, I trust? The ruling classes quite properly cultivate a healthy layer of soft tissue, the better to interact with…

By the Heavenly Powers, a chef in the drawing room?!
(Faints dead away)

Oh, you poor dear.

I assume this is some species of double entendre, but you will find that regular administrations of Ludwig Kaspar's Vitalizing Draught have greatly increased my… my… oh, crumbs.

In that I live in the late nineteenth century, everything I encounter in this milieu is a jolly great 'spoiler'.
Sincerely,
Elegant Victorian Lady.
(Faints dead away)

This is probably all my fault, somehow.
Sincerely,
Elegant Victorian Lady.
(Faints dead away)

(Stares aghast)
(Faints dead away)