You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously.
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