(no subject)
"Excuse me?"
From an antique cubboard crawls a little girl, no older than ten, in an anachronistic (if that were possible here) flowered frock. She rises to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt. Her eyes rove the Nexus, wide but not unbelieving, exactly. Her credulity is written on her face.
In a moment she spots the sign, and she mouths the words as she reads them to herself. "A question?" she asks aloud. "Well, I suppose that's one, isn't it? But it's not a proper question, really." She frowns in thought. "Well, what am I meant to ask?"