At the door, though, Hermione turned, and hitching up her baggy-seated breeches, fixed him with a glare and pointed a long, skinny finger of accusation at him. “If we turns out to be whores after all, you fucker, I’m gonna hunt you down, cut your balls off, and stuff ’em up your arse.” He took his leave with what dignity he could, the peals of Mrs. Sylvie’s laughter ringing in his ears.
