<div class="floatleft">(http://i46.photobucket.com/albums/f142/capwilly1/Westinghouse/Tori_avi.jpg)</div><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Lady Victoria Stuart</span></span> </strong><br/><strong>Current Location:</strong>In a Coach on the Road<br/><strong>With:</strong>Claude Moreau<br/><strong>When:</strong>About 4pm<br/><br/>Conversation with her new father-in-law grew at first idle and then became sporadic. Not because she had run out of things to say or lost interest in what he had to say but simply because sitting for hours in bumping, jostling coach was exhausting. True relaxation was impossible as balance and dignity were struggled to be maintained.  What had started off seeming like a comfortable coach was now feeling more and more like a tiny moving prison cell. Even the beauty of the English countryside lost its glow, as hour after hour and sheep after sheep rolled by.<br/><br/>Although at first it seemed to be lessening, with each jolting bump in the road the pain in Lady Victoria's head became sharper and more pounding.<br/><br/>“I don't believe it!” He said as he nearly jumped up. “Finally I zee a man!”<br/><br/>Lady Victoria smiled weakly, "So it is true. We aren't the last people on Earth, after all."  She turned her head to the window but couldn't see anyone one. "Who is it?"<br/><br/>