Greatwater Lake she was afraid of dreadful prophecies

we can fade after next round?

it's easy to listen— he had mastered the art of it, of appearing interested. he didn't think it would work so well on scylla, as bulletproof and unpickable as she was, but it was a good habit: leaning your head forwards just so, maybe tilting it too, so that the light catches on the inner corners of your eyes, a wry smile or a thoughtful purse of the lips... a lot of the times, facial expressions were something to pick out and wear. yes, i'd like a size seven. yes, i'd like it bagged.
he shifts his weight, loosens his posture. what dystopia had this dark girl come up out of? in all honesty, that sounds like an excuse from him. he says noncomittally while steepling his fingers, saying i don't believe in curses. i barely believe in ghosts. i'll avoid those woods then.
scylla didn't seem like the child of some madman or a product of cursed depravity. she just seemed like a girl who'd grown up too fast. a part of him almost, almost pities her. but reality was he wasn't good at pity and he doubted that she'd take anything of the sort.