[ The jokes — We've tradesmen? Your fault for rooming with Rutyer, else: We ought to branch out to the ugly — vanish on a laugh. It isn't only for the cigarette. (It's a bit for the cigarette) ]
Soft heart. [ He flicks leaf from fingers before plucking a roll, an appreciative nod that must pass for IOU. ] You know, I'd wager she kept it up when you left. Seething, and still setting out milk.
[ It's as good odds the woman owns a lovely new pair of fur gloves, but people are funny like that. Sentimental.
Hands cup about spark, smoke; a small and habitual miracle. It wasn't so long ago that he was careful, bothered to disguise the gesture. It may well be a lifetime. Paper tips between finger, stained with the faint old press of ink. Everything runs thinner of late, and perhaps it's that; or it's only that he has what he wanted. He chances the overstep, ]
It might be different. He'd go with you.
[ Of that Isaac's certain; they're disgustingly public in some regard. But it wouldn't be different, and he's rather sure of that too, or Bastien would still be holed up writing letters. ]
no subject
Soft heart. [ He flicks leaf from fingers before plucking a roll, an appreciative nod that must pass for IOU. ] You know, I'd wager she kept it up when you left. Seething, and still setting out milk.
[ It's as good odds the woman owns a lovely new pair of fur gloves, but people are funny like that. Sentimental.
Hands cup about spark, smoke; a small and habitual miracle. It wasn't so long ago that he was careful, bothered to disguise the gesture. It may well be a lifetime. Paper tips between finger, stained with the faint old press of ink. Everything runs thinner of late, and perhaps it's that; or it's only that he has what he wanted. He chances the overstep, ]
It might be different. He'd go with you.
[ Of that Isaac's certain; they're disgustingly public in some regard. But it wouldn't be different, and he's rather sure of that too, or Bastien would still be holed up writing letters. ]