Under normal circumstances, Lester Brockle-Bank liked his quietude strong and full-flavored, like his tea; however, lately, his typical reclusive manner had ceded to an inordinate need for the society of local rustics rather dissimilar from him in temperament. In deep and searing pain over the loss of Lottie, this morose lonely heart found an unlikely solace in the boisterous tea houses of North Plimpton-by-the-Sea.
He was not alone there in drowning his sorrow, which he did with the intensity of Bergamot as well as with the help of many a willing, well-upholstered tea cozy.
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