[She takes her hand back, feeling slightly warmer from his touch, but still speaking with a polite, slightly dispassionate tone—after all, she hardly knows him well enough to speak intimately with him, even if his silly gesture does flatter her.
No one for the wicked: those words, though, catch her attention more than his lukewarm inquiry. What a way to describe oneself—almost foreboding, the thought strikes her, and she finds herself almost morbidly curious. It is not as if she feels unsafe, not while still the protective shade of the garden, and hundreds of others are just a short stroll away. But the dark sky, the moonlight, and the thick abundance of flowering plants are just enough to give the illusion of privacy.]
Do you think of yourself as wicked, Mr. Darmody?
[She asks, but there is no coy or flirtatious tone in the question, but rather, a pure innocence to it. She is curious, but not the sort of terrible curiosity which belies a hunger for new lovers.]
no subject
[She takes her hand back, feeling slightly warmer from his touch, but still speaking with a polite, slightly dispassionate tone—after all, she hardly knows him well enough to speak intimately with him, even if his silly gesture does flatter her.
No one for the wicked: those words, though, catch her attention more than his lukewarm inquiry. What a way to describe oneself—almost foreboding, the thought strikes her, and she finds herself almost morbidly curious. It is not as if she feels unsafe, not while still the protective shade of the garden, and hundreds of others are just a short stroll away. But the dark sky, the moonlight, and the thick abundance of flowering plants are just enough to give the illusion of privacy.]
Do you think of yourself as wicked, Mr. Darmody?
[She asks, but there is no coy or flirtatious tone in the question, but rather, a pure innocence to it. She is curious, but not the sort of terrible curiosity which belies a hunger for new lovers.]