“So go on then,” I snapped. “Get it over with.” A frown passed across the inexpressive face. “You want me to kill you already?” “Not that. The rubbish joke you’re thinking up. About it being good of me to hang around, or something like that. Go on, you know you want to. Get it out of your system.” The scholar looked pained. “As if I’d stoop so low, Bartimaeus. You judge me by your own subterranean standards of repartee, which are as regrettable as the condition of your essence. Look at you! As perforated as a sponge. If I were your master, I’d use you to mop the floor.”
