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#4
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Quiet Man Cometh
We're all mad here.
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The lavishly dressed poet lowers his goblet from his lips.
“I wish.” He looks disdainfully at the damp state of his frock. Though the dark wine isn’t affecting the colour much, it’s certainly unbecoming. “You couldn’t have done that with a little more finesse, could you? I have ruined by coat.”
George Gordon, Lord Byron, sixth lord of his declining line, turns to look at his master.
He raises one eyebrow while looking at the…child, with discerning burgundy eyes. He takes another sip of his wine. “This,” he flourishes his arm about the room, spilling a little more wine, this time on the lush carpet, “was you, yes?”
He soon loses interest in his scrutinizing and turns to look out the window over the square. “Ah, this is fresh. How long has is been since I have been through such environs? How long before we shall go out and explore?” He taps his waistcoat, once, then two more times. “I must have a pen!”
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Posted 01-18-2017, 03:11 AM
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