[Lois covers her ears in bed. Zooms out to Peter hold a gigantic plume feather in the form of a quill pen, and begins to write]
"Dearest Augustine, I do hope this latest damp has not aggravated your grey lung." [*dips his quill] Dip-dip-dip-dip-dip. "Matters stateside have taken a tragic turn as this year's gourd crop has fallen prey to a rather unexpected infestation of salt marsh cutworms." Dip-dip-dip-dip-dip.
[sits up] Peter, it's 4:00 in the morning; come to bed.
[writes further] "Marital concerns continue to bedevil me."
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