There is a young boy sitting at one of the tables. Normally, his face would hold a bright smile and perhaps a curl of mischief at the corner of his lips, but at the moment those lips are pressed together into a tight line with only the occasional hiss shifting them at all. In his hand is a small bit of cloth and beside him is a glass of whiskey
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And so he sweeps himself over, standing at the edge of the table and then offering a hesitant smile.
"Would you like some help, young man?"
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"If it's not too much trouble, sir," he says lamely.
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"Here, now. Are you able to get your leg up here, young man?"
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He's taken far worse with no response, of course. Lawrence would never have any reason to see them, but there are still scars across his shoulders and on his back from the good Reverend Thwackum's "lesson".
He stands and shifts to a nearby chair before pulling it over to the booth and putting up his leg.
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Lawrence takes up the cloth easily and dabs a bit of antiseptic on it before he begins to take to the wound. He's careful, perhaps moreso because of Tom's age.
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"As you like, sir. I shall have to ask Miss Bar for another set of them, I suppose, but--"
And he bites his lip again because he'd given away the rest of his purse some days ago.
"As you like, sir," he repeats again bravely.
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"Ah, of course not. I'll pick a new pair up for you since I'm the one who's going to ruin these ones worse."
And that said, he tears the hole a little larger and then continues to dab at the wound. "And who might you be, hm? I'm Lawrence, if you wish."
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"Jones, sir. Tom Jones of Somersetshire."
And he watches Lawrence tear the hole with a strange mixture of satisfaction and worry. He doesn't wish to burden anyone.
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That .. is quite interesting indeed. "Do you prefer Tom, or does Jones suffice? I myself use only my last name." Lawrence leans down to squint at the wound in order to make sure he's gotten any gravel or dirt out of it.
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After he cleans off the wound he draws out a band-aid -- not that he's got any clue about it, but it looks all right. He places the bandage over his knee, sealing up the edges.
"There now. Would you like some tea?"
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"That would be lovely, sir. I'm a bit thirsty, to be honest."
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Because any Brit knows that cookies go with tea. He picks up two cups from the bar along with a plate of goodies and then walks back to Tom.
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But he certainly sips his own tea.
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