[ William rolls his eyes—not extravagantly, but noticeably—at mention of her boat, cast for a moment back to a dinner party. Any dinner party. He looks her over again, something in him hardening toward her, considers her choice of words: con artist.
Not thief. Not a lowly grifter. ]
Twenty-first. [ He says—patient and seemingly unselfconscious. His gaze does not stray to his hat, his boots, the sleeve of his painstakingly accurate nineteenth-century shirt. ] You should sit down.
no subject
Not thief. Not a lowly grifter. ]
Twenty-first. [ He says—patient and seemingly unselfconscious. His gaze does not stray to his hat, his boots, the sleeve of his painstakingly accurate nineteenth-century shirt. ] You should sit down.