the ineluctable modality of easter eggs

Afternoon bright and cold.
Ran into the beautiful chermop on Kilcullen Main Street.
"How many Easter eggs did you have?" she enquired brightly.
She was wrapped up like a snowman.
It must be noted that the habilements of the snowman could not quite conceal her striking femininity.
I eyed her keenly.
Her cheeks were suffused with winterish luminescence.
(Winterishly luminescent cheeks. Ooh er Missus. - Frankie Howerd note.)
I took all this in before I answered.
I reckoned she'd been asking a trick question.
In these circumstances it doesn't do to blurt out the first thing that comes into your head.
If I wasn't careful I might end up telling her the truth.
"I have eaten a grand total of nought Easter eggs," I proclaimed grandly. "As you well know I am a sufferer of gout. Therefore chocolate is not good for me. Easter eggs are off the menu."
The beautiful chermop gave me a probing sidelong glance.
"I'd say you had about three," she concluded after a minute.
I watched her stride away.
Damn chermopodists.
They can peer into the very soul.