"Fancy meeting you here," Alex says, depositing her own stack on the opposite end of the table. The titles are varied. The American Revolution. The French Revolution. A few on her specialty, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which if he checked the frontispieces, would post-date her death.
"There are books here that were considered long lost in my time", he
says, in tones of faint awe. "To pass up the chance to read them, even if
they must remain here... impossible."
"Thomas Kyd, in point of fact", he says absently, turning the book back to
the cover page for a moment to show her. "Or so it's believed.
Shakespeare's Hamlet came later, this may have been part of his
inspiration."
"And do they make no spectacles in your time that would not make you look
like your mother?" he inquires. "If you begin complaining of headaches, I
will know why."
"But these lenses you spoke of... surely those leave no such divots? Or is
it that you do not like applying them - in which case, yes, I can quite see
your point?"
"If you don't leave off, I'm going to take you shopping for a suit. A proper suit, with a tie. And a shirt in colours utterly unheard of in your day and age."
"...three months", he decides after a moment. "I am not exactly in a
position at the moment to bring people into my world for shopping
expeditions, but I hope for that to change shortly."
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