[It is a lovely day and Admiral Norrington is sat out on the steps to his apartment building as befits such weather, bent forward as though scrutinizing his own knees. Laid out across his lap is his uniform's coat, ripped during the battle dome debacle. Why has he come outside? The daylight will help his eye to guide the needle. His fingers,
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[Archie is standing in front of the admiral and holding his hand out for the garment, having seen the man looking so pathetic from a distance.]
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You. You can sew? Or do you seek to ..
[And then, after a moment,]
Sir?
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He can't believe he's doing this.]
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Allowing Kennedy to take it should be simple, too. If he was honest with himself then the admiral would acknowledge the fact that even if the boy were to stitch "kick me" into its back in glaring red silk he could easily fetch another from the square.
Yet he does not relinquish it.]
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He gives a nod and would touch his hat if he had one.] Good day, sir.
[With that, he turns to go.]
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[Not to apologize. He had half hoped that the spark of honour that he had witness at the dance might overcome the boy's pride. Might shine, here, again.]
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