The crimson paint leeched into white petals of the garden. Brushes wielded by the long arms hurriedly splashed paint on pale roses. A drop landed on a blade of grass, the round leaf on the hedge, on the nose of another agitated worker. The cards held their uniform ranks, singing a mournful dirge for the roses, that would soon be dead, painted petals blown to the winds.
If the Rabbit wasn't such a loyal subject, he would have thought the whole affair was a pity, a shame, a scandal.
If he wasn't so loyal, he would think the Queen mad!