The year of— [ our Lord, a pause, barely noticeable, before her graveled murmur continues on. ] ...eighteen ninety-two.
[ Vanessa's patience for hearing stories isn't what it once was, but she can understand the sentiment. For reading, she has a certain fondness, and the suggestion that she somehow hasn't heard of Poe might be insulting if she hadn't had to illustrate the year of her arrival. Departure?
The thought of Clara carrying on reciting poetry to others in a fashion that Vanessa herself is fond of is a bit comforting, and not something she should be surprised by. Clara's shown poetic leanings before now. ]
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
[ Her gaze stays ahead, one hand in her coat pocket while the other lets the small carcass hang at her side, the limp creature gently bumping her dark skirts when they take a steeper incline. ]
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor...shall be lifted—nevermore.
no subject
[ Vanessa's patience for hearing stories isn't what it once was, but she can understand the sentiment. For reading, she has a certain fondness, and the suggestion that she somehow hasn't heard of Poe might be insulting if she hadn't had to illustrate the year of her arrival. Departure?
The thought of Clara carrying on reciting poetry to others in a fashion that Vanessa herself is fond of is a bit comforting, and not something she should be surprised by. Clara's shown poetic leanings before now. ]
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
[ Her gaze stays ahead, one hand in her coat pocket while the other lets the small carcass hang at her side, the limp creature gently bumping her dark skirts when they take a steeper incline. ]
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor...shall be lifted—nevermore.