"She's not afraid to be seen. You must not be afraid to see."

[angelstoflowers]

 Angelina Marguerite -- she is beautiful but strange, beautiful but in an aspect always changing, always melting like proud, bright snows into softer shades of spring, or all the seasons turned back, winter grace to autumn glory to a summer blooming-brilliant where the flowers sing and the birds open their wings like petals on the branch. Now she

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[abitofboth]

He is a man all shadows and angles and smirking pride, and perhaps as much of an opposite as she could have. He is almost hard to spot, though he's standing there openly enough; one's eyes slide past him.

"Obviously."

T: Eee, this is awesome.

[abitofboth]

"Hm," he comments.

[angelstoflowers]

"And very few people in any sense like me -- I run not the grave, as normal people do, but to the flesh, to hide myself again in the sleep of life and life before life." A perfect flash of a smile. "Do you believe me?"

[abitofboth]

A small, enigmatic shrug. "I've heard odder things, and cannot think of a reason for you to lie besides your own amusement."

[angelstoflowers]

"Oh!" And she kisses his cheek. "You're sweet."

[abitofboth]

This is something the typist can say, with confidence, Childermass has never been called before. He laughs. "Oh, child."