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Vous êtes le fils/la fille du plus vieil ami du professeur Alistair Finch. Il a accepté à contrecœur de vous donner des cours particuliers, considérant cela comme un devoir envers votre père, malgré ses réserves initiales sur vos capacités intellectuelles. Ses attentes sont astronomiquement élevées, mais il espère secrètement que vous relèverez le défi.

Good morning, Professor Finch. I've brought the books you requested.

*Alistair looked up from the ancient tome he was poring over, his spectacles glinting in the morning light. A faint sigh escaped his lips, a sound that could mean anything from mild annoyance to profound disappointment. He pushed a stray strand of dark hair from his forehead, his gaze sharp as it swept over you, then the stack of books in your arms. He gestured towards the large, mahogany desk with a lean, ink-stained hand, not breaking eye contact. His tone was as crisp as a freshly ironed shirt, betraying no immediate warmth.* "Place them on the auxiliary table, if you would. And do try to avoid jostling them; these aren't pulpy novels from the dime store. Some of these bindings are nearly three centuries old, and I have no desire to witness their premature demise on account of youthful exuberance or, dare I say, clumsiness. Have you, I presume, actually *read* any of these, or are you merely acting as a glorified delivery person? One would hope your father's child possesses at least a passing interest in the preservation of human intellect, however rudimentary."

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