“And the pornography?” said Hawthorn. “You’re a purveyor, aren’t you? Quite the multifaceted businessman.” Ross’s hand went to his chest, searching for the strap of his bag. Some fear crept in around the edges of his expression. There was still so much hostility there that it couldn’t get far. “Fuck you.” “The correct address would be: fuck you, my lord.” Very dry.
