03-27-2022, 05:26 AM
Zechariah? Pick one lone opinion and stick to it? Ha! Only under contract, Ruth.
There was a furrow of his brows at the remark on his true calling, but his sister had always been something of a world unto herself. If he spent too much time trying to pick apart her insinuations, well, he would hardly get anywhere to begin with. She could keep her mysteries.
Ruth schemed, and Zechariah … was not nearly as concerned as might do him well. She was nosy. Most of them were terminably nosy. What was she going to do? Figure out he exclusively fancied men? If any of them guessed that, it would probably be her. She need not a fairy court case to satisfy herself with that tidbit.
“Check between?” he scoffed. “Dear, me. Color me impressed if you fail to add your own. I regret,” he continued glibly, “to inform you that none of the socialists here are Russian.”
In other words: just starry-eyed goyim instead of their own loftier cousins embarrassing him. She could expect to be dutifully mocked, whereas Zechariah would have had to stuff his oh-so educated opinions to most who would hear them lest he draw the wrong attention to their struggling own.
“She was the most beautiful woman I ever had,” Zechariah countered, dismissively.
Then looked thoughtful with a frown. That fellow had seemed to have a love of skirts that went beyond the bedroom, and it had not lasted long between them.
The cart was beginning to slow down. He was half-tempted to call out and tell the driver to take them to a tavern instead. Once she knew his place by sight, after all, it would be that much more difficult to get her out of there. All the worse when (eugh, not if) she stepped past the threshold and ten dozen full clothing racks materialized out of thin air the next morning.
Small mercies were one of the few mercies Zechariah knew how to grant. Did he pry out whatever tale of woe she fled? Would he stand for her prying out the hope that had choked out, day by day, as deed by sordid deed wafted out like London sewage around the man he had planned to spend his life with? To do more than tease about the rather sensitive boy who had grown callouses in England, and then iced over on the coast?
No. Whatever humiliations (or worse) that she suffered – they were hers to have, and hers to share if she chose to.
“Fake trousers,” Zechariah ‘compromised’.
There were more important things to eviscerate, after all.
He blew out his cheeks and threw up his hands.
“And those are what you have to show for it? Steal a lover with a-” at that absurd line, he cracked up, “better husband! God. You should have gone to France like Nesah.”
There was a furrow of his brows at the remark on his true calling, but his sister had always been something of a world unto herself. If he spent too much time trying to pick apart her insinuations, well, he would hardly get anywhere to begin with. She could keep her mysteries.
Ruth schemed, and Zechariah … was not nearly as concerned as might do him well. She was nosy. Most of them were terminably nosy. What was she going to do? Figure out he exclusively fancied men? If any of them guessed that, it would probably be her. She need not a fairy court case to satisfy herself with that tidbit.
“Check between?” he scoffed. “Dear, me. Color me impressed if you fail to add your own. I regret,” he continued glibly, “to inform you that none of the socialists here are Russian.”
In other words: just starry-eyed goyim instead of their own loftier cousins embarrassing him. She could expect to be dutifully mocked, whereas Zechariah would have had to stuff his oh-so educated opinions to most who would hear them lest he draw the wrong attention to their struggling own.
“She was the most beautiful woman I ever had,” Zechariah countered, dismissively.
Then looked thoughtful with a frown. That fellow had seemed to have a love of skirts that went beyond the bedroom, and it had not lasted long between them.
The cart was beginning to slow down. He was half-tempted to call out and tell the driver to take them to a tavern instead. Once she knew his place by sight, after all, it would be that much more difficult to get her out of there. All the worse when (eugh, not if) she stepped past the threshold and ten dozen full clothing racks materialized out of thin air the next morning.
Small mercies were one of the few mercies Zechariah knew how to grant. Did he pry out whatever tale of woe she fled? Would he stand for her prying out the hope that had choked out, day by day, as deed by sordid deed wafted out like London sewage around the man he had planned to spend his life with? To do more than tease about the rather sensitive boy who had grown callouses in England, and then iced over on the coast?
No. Whatever humiliations (or worse) that she suffered – they were hers to have, and hers to share if she chose to.
“Fake trousers,” Zechariah ‘compromised’.
There were more important things to eviscerate, after all.
He blew out his cheeks and threw up his hands.
“And those are what you have to show for it? Steal a lover with a-” at that absurd line, he cracked up, “better husband! God. You should have gone to France like Nesah.”
