[But still. Not to know what happened to someone like that, taken by men who marched in with blood on their hands. It's inconceivable to Prior. But then, Prior comes from a world with phones.
He lets Dorian take his hand, distracted as he's lead down the hall.]
I was arrested for public indecency, once. Hit on a police officer in a public bathroom when I was too young to know what a trap looked like. I thought that was scandalous. The scandal's that anyone gives a shit who you're fucking, you get that, right? They killed people for this.
[Get him through that door before he takes it upon himself to go back and lecture unresponding figments.
It opens out onto the top of a stairwell in an airy New England home. Dorian won't recognise that it's showhome ready, a place that looks lived in less than it looks expensive: no grand turreted castle, but clearly something its own brand of refined.
Halfway down sits a little boy in smart pants and shirt, with a waistcoat. A miniature suit jacket made for someone who can't be more than eight years old is dropped in a little heap beside him, and a woman's handbag with a stuffed bear tucked into it on top of that. There's a flower clip tucked into his longish, page boy cut hair.
A couple stand in front of the open door at the end of the hall, dressed in '50s finery. An argument that started in low tones is now becoming raised. If you really think I'm introducing you and that to the head of the company you must have your head screwed on more backward than usual.]
no subject
He lets Dorian take his hand, distracted as he's lead down the hall.]
I was arrested for public indecency, once. Hit on a police officer in a public bathroom when I was too young to know what a trap looked like. I thought that was scandalous. The scandal's that anyone gives a shit who you're fucking, you get that, right? They killed people for this.
[Get him through that door before he takes it upon himself to go back and lecture unresponding figments.
It opens out onto the top of a stairwell in an airy New England home. Dorian won't recognise that it's showhome ready, a place that looks lived in less than it looks expensive: no grand turreted castle, but clearly something its own brand of refined.
Halfway down sits a little boy in smart pants and shirt, with a waistcoat. A miniature suit jacket made for someone who can't be more than eight years old is dropped in a little heap beside him, and a woman's handbag with a stuffed bear tucked into it on top of that. There's a flower clip tucked into his longish, page boy cut hair.
A couple stand in front of the open door at the end of the hall, dressed in '50s finery. An argument that started in low tones is now becoming raised. If you really think I'm introducing you and that to the head of the company you must have your head screwed on more backward than usual.]