[ Do you ever play yourself: the life. Claude does his level best to look away from Iona after he sees the edges of contentment seep into her expression, letting his hands busy themselves with adjusting his collar and tie.
I'll be back in a minute, he says, before quickly disappearing into the throng of books and archaic equipment, into the archives where he fishes for records of orphanages and births happening around the operahouse within the past 30 years or so. Those are the dry books he'll skim through, the ones that don't exactly spur imagination— the records he brings back for Iona are the ones with more of a story to them, old newspapers and handwritten stories of a boy with a sad voice who lives in the sewers.
When he comes back, Claude sits down so that he covers Iona from any passersby, leaving her free to pick up the books without worry. ]
no subject
I'll be back in a minute, he says, before quickly disappearing into the throng of books and archaic equipment, into the archives where he fishes for records of orphanages and births happening around the operahouse within the past 30 years or so. Those are the dry books he'll skim through, the ones that don't exactly spur imagination— the records he brings back for Iona are the ones with more of a story to them, old newspapers and handwritten stories of a boy with a sad voice who lives in the sewers.
When he comes back, Claude sits down so that he covers Iona from any passersby, leaving her free to pick up the books without worry. ]
Oh good, you're still here.