for ambitious_woman So will you please say "Hello" To the folks that I know, London 1942
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He had been gone three weeks.
Three weeks one day and seventeen hours to be precise.
The whole time, it had been in his mind to return, but this time he wanted to be ready. He wanted a plan before he turned back up ready to show her a little of the future and a little of his past.
The first thing he did was visit a library. He sat in a quiet corner with a book. The aged dust sheet was decorated with a photograph of a painting of 'Madame de Pompadour'. There was a likeness, at least. He wasn't sure if he ought to read. The pages told her history, or at least the story that history was graced with. There was always so much more, he knew, and so much incricacy and detail that history could never wish to capture.
Moments in time that flitted and disappeared.
It wouldn't be right of him to read, would it? No. So for once, he hoped, he made the right decision, and the book remained in the library, unopened and untouched.
A book, however, that did make it out the door, was a French language book. Eighteenth Century French to be precise. He wanted to brush up.
And he did. He brushed and he prepared and three weeks later he was sure he was ready. Or at least, as ready as he could ever be.
So he took himself back, with a bag and a box in tow. He arrived at 5pm. Three week and barely any time at all.
Five fifty eight and he stood outside the doorway to her lounge. He'd found his way up, and though he'd received looks, he found too they didn't attempt to stop him. His destination was expected. A reputation already, it seemed.
Five fifty nine and he walked in.
He had been gone three weeks.
Three weeks one day and seventeen hours to be precise.
The whole time, it had been in his mind to return, but this time he wanted to be ready. He wanted a plan before he turned back up ready to show her a little of the future and a little of his past.
The first thing he did was visit a library. He sat in a quiet corner with a book. The aged dust sheet was decorated with a photograph of a painting of 'Madame de Pompadour'. There was a likeness, at least. He wasn't sure if he ought to read. The pages told her history, or at least the story that history was graced with. There was always so much more, he knew, and so much incricacy and detail that history could never wish to capture.
Moments in time that flitted and disappeared.
It wouldn't be right of him to read, would it? No. So for once, he hoped, he made the right decision, and the book remained in the library, unopened and untouched.
A book, however, that did make it out the door, was a French language book. Eighteenth Century French to be precise. He wanted to brush up.
And he did. He brushed and he prepared and three weeks later he was sure he was ready. Or at least, as ready as he could ever be.
So he took himself back, with a bag and a box in tow. He arrived at 5pm. Three week and barely any time at all.
Five fifty eight and he stood outside the doorway to her lounge. He'd found his way up, and though he'd received looks, he found too they didn't attempt to stop him. His destination was expected. A reputation already, it seemed.
Five fifty nine and he walked in.