“I apologize; I’m not capable of using such ornate words, Mademoiselle,” recited the French diplomat with a heavy accent.
“Never mind, Monsieur, it is alright even if you remain mum.”
The hostess continued the tour of the plush Victorian-villa for her guest.
“And this was the working lobby, where the soothsayers would fret all day, waiting for their lives to please Grandmother.”
“This is a photograph of that time,” she gestured towards an ancient snapshot, “You can imagine those men and women, some bare-chested, others wearing turbans, and yet others in even more bizarre clothing, looking into those globes or cards and some in the waters, supposedly brought from the holiest of rivers, gazing into the unfathomable layers of future.”
“Your ornate words are so ornate, Madame.”
“Would you like to know more?”
And she continued to enunciate, as in the words of the gentleman, her ornate words.
* Written in response of VisDare 23: Ornate