[If Phil selected that conspicuously empty table with the intention of spending the evening alone, he will soon become sorely disappointed.
A tall man, dressed from head to toe in sharp neatly-buttoned blacks, abruptly pulls an extra chair up to Phil's table and drops himself into the seat. This man sticks out from the crowd for several reasons. First, he carries himself like a military general among peasants, his back straight as a board, chin held proudly out of his collar. Second, he carries with him no drink, and there is not a hint of alcohol on his breath. Third, he is simply far too clean for the messy clientele that frequent the Three Broomsticks. And fourth...
Well. Considering that wolfish face of his, framed by a pair of impressive muttonchops? He certainly did not look like the type to throw a rip-roaring party. No; rather, he greets Phil with a sort of intense scrutiny that seems to combine a touch of imploring and casual curiosity with measured, jaded judgment. A paradoxical stare, to be certain.
It is the man Phil would recognize as Professor Javert, no other name known or given.
From his sleeve he pops open a pack of freshly-rolled cigarettes. His brows nudge up his forward, and he shoots a brief glance down. They are not the cheap prepackaged stuff. Javert selects his single indulgence carefully.
Go on, Phil. Help yourself.]
One week. [What? No "Hi, how are you?"] You finished the week, and you still look whole. That is promising for you.
no subject
A tall man, dressed from head to toe in sharp neatly-buttoned blacks, abruptly pulls an extra chair up to Phil's table and drops himself into the seat. This man sticks out from the crowd for several reasons. First, he carries himself like a military general among peasants, his back straight as a board, chin held proudly out of his collar. Second, he carries with him no drink, and there is not a hint of alcohol on his breath. Third, he is simply far too clean for the messy clientele that frequent the Three Broomsticks. And fourth...
Well. Considering that wolfish face of his, framed by a pair of impressive muttonchops? He certainly did not look like the type to throw a rip-roaring party. No; rather, he greets Phil with a sort of intense scrutiny that seems to combine a touch of imploring and casual curiosity with measured, jaded judgment. A paradoxical stare, to be certain.
It is the man Phil would recognize as Professor Javert, no other name known or given.
From his sleeve he pops open a pack of freshly-rolled cigarettes. His brows nudge up his forward, and he shoots a brief glance down. They are not the cheap prepackaged stuff. Javert selects his single indulgence carefully.
Go on, Phil. Help yourself.]
One week. [What? No "Hi, how are you?"] You finished the week, and you still look whole. That is promising for you.