[She is seated at the kitchen table with its overflowing assortment of papers and schematics and suspicious looking things in jars, and has before her an open leather bound folio spilling from which are countless further documents and a side slip of paper upon which she is slowly, tediously, with all the enthusiasm of 3-something-a.m., scratching out maths. She jumps when he speaks, pen jagging in a hard line across the row of her sums.]
Good gods, Mr. Fitz! I thought you were the spirit. [She hurries to blot up the excess ink with a corner of whatever piece of paper is most convenient, and finds herself summarily in the possession of two records covered in black smears.] And no. It's back to chicory coffee.
no subject
Good gods, Mr. Fitz! I thought you were the spirit. [She hurries to blot up the excess ink with a corner of whatever piece of paper is most convenient, and finds herself summarily in the possession of two records covered in black smears.] And no. It's back to chicory coffee.
[That bitter agent of necessity.]