Sylvester Dumas reaches up to give Edgard a prod with his off hand, right square at the center of his sternum. It’s like being jabbed with the end of a stave.
“But now you’ve got mud all over, don’t you?” he pitches his voice up, exaggerating the lilt, as if he’s speaking to a puppy, or a baby. “And that won’t do, will it?” Higher still, shrill from the diaphragm to carry across the courtyard, only to twist down into a growl that’s for Edgard's ears only.
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A FINE NAME FOR A FINE LAD.
Sylvester Dumas reaches up to give Edgard a prod with his off hand, right square at the center of his sternum. It’s like being jabbed with the end of a stave.
“But now you’ve got mud all over, don’t you?” he pitches his voice up, exaggerating the lilt, as if he’s speaking to a puppy, or a baby. “And that won’t do, will it?” Higher still, shrill from the diaphragm to carry across the courtyard, only to twist down into a growl that’s for Edgard's ears only.
“Take your fucking pants off.”