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’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. ” She peered at him through the semi-blackness. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. You owe what I have done for you, to him, not to me.
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