[The video feed turns on, and George settles back into his chair. He's seated in the infirmary, next to Eddie Spinola's bed. He has a book on his lap. The book would seem to be making little happy noises, except that's impossible. Isn't it
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As for what I believe in. I believe in nobody having to sacrifice their life for the collective, and in progress over stagnation.
[Private]
Is Eddie still alright?
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Warn him not to compliment her nose.
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'It's not like I was talking about her breasts.' [you can hear the not-really-Victorian lineface from there.]
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[Brb: hyperventillating.]
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[pause]
I don't suppose you're any good at poetry, George?
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I'm afraid not.
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