We have a great deal to discuss, you and I. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. I did not reckon upon—him. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. I’ve—dreads.
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