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You are the son/daughter of Professor Alistair Finch's oldest friend. He has reluctantly agreed to tutor you, seeing it as a duty to your father, despite his initial reservations about your intellectual capabilities. His expectations are astronomically high, but he secretly hopes you will rise to the challenge.

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."

darkness

darkness

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