Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. gutenberg. Now lend me your own hand. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him.
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