I’m having one of those moments where I’m just… dry. I’m tapped like a keg at a fraternity party. My glass is empty and we’re out of juice and the car has four flat tires and a dead battery.

Coherent, engaging words are not putting themselves in order for me here. I wish Ashley’s dress were shorter; I wish Mary-Kate’s looked less like she were an elderly whippet at a funeral. I would like her shoes, in a different context. The purse might be great, and that emerald ring is my soulmate. So, you know… is it fab? I don’t personally think all the good pieces add up to a surplus in the sartorial ledger, but it’s also not as gnarly as we’ve seen. Oh, but of course, there is one more bone to pick with Ashley:

I only like that if tugging it brings Mr. Carson to my drawing room with a brandy and some chocolate biscuits, or Wadsworth to the study in an attempt to interest me in fruit, or dessert. They can buttle for me anytime they like.

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[Photos: WENN and Getty]