He was crying. And not the sniffling, peer-through-his-fingers-to-see-if-I-was-watching cry. This was an all-out sob. “I w-worry, Bartholomew. It is undoubtably m-my w-worst quality. I worried you might be s-sad to be s-sick, all alone at the wall. I came back and—and—” He threw his head back and wailed. “You were gone.”
i love him ):
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