" He opened his eyes, to behold hers large with wonder. Not all of us, but some of us. “Anna!” she repeated. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. A jolly night we made of it, as you may suppose; for four such monarchs don't often come together. So Monday, when I see one of the maids come out with a basket, for to go fetch summat for that other Frenchie—the female as I told you about, miss, as is forever coming and going with the nobs. His eyes flashed as he turned towards her. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. “And where are YOU going?” he said.
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