“Well, make sure you use something. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too.
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