A British policeman is looking for a millionaire at a posh hotel in Bradford:
It was called the Royal Edward, and for once it lived up to its name. The foyer was all white and gold and plush pink, with spotty mirrors in gilt frames; scattered around were pink and gold velvet sofas, on which one could imagine Royal Edward perching his ample frame, perhaps placing his hand on a not-unwilling knee the while, or pinching a bebustled bottom while whispering an assignation. Through the door to the left I caught a glimpse of an oak-panelled dining-room, where one could imagine him eating one of his piggish meals. It was all rather daunting — as if I’d strayed on to the set of one of those BBC historical serials for television.
(Robert Barnard, The Case of the Missing Brontë, 1983, ch. 8)
Was ‘bebustled’ an attempt to make it into the next revision of the OED?
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