*Dorcas can feel the headache building behind her eyes: a dull, disappointing pressure becoming more and more difficult to ignore. The cacophony of the boarding plane had only accelerated the process. The chatty passengers, the crying baby--why was there always a crying baby?--and the bustling flight crew, all conspiring to wear Dorcas down to her last nerve
( ... )
By the smell of you, I'd guess not. If I knew any better, I'd suspect you found the one pub in town and drank it into the ground.
*She rolls her eyes upward, in a moment of silent prayer for patience. The hum of the engines is intensifying. The stewardess at the front of the cabin is instructing the passengers on proper safety procedures, in Portuguese of course. Horrible, backwards language. She can't help the indignant bark of laughter.*
Roots, my eye. I wouldn't know this place from the back of a post card.
*Dearborn lights his cigar, fumbling only very slightly with the Muggle device he's obliged to use in places like this, and begins puffing with every indication of perfect contentment.*
Did you manage get anything out of that old dead cunt?
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Who says I've been to bed?
You're looking well. It must be nice getting back to your roots.
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*She rolls her eyes upward, in a moment of silent prayer for patience. The hum of the engines is intensifying. The stewardess at the front of the cabin is instructing the passengers on proper safety procedures, in Portuguese of course. Horrible, backwards language. She can't help the indignant bark of laughter.*
Roots, my eye. I wouldn't know this place from the back of a post card.
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Did you manage get anything out of that old dead cunt?
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