|•| Португальский солдат и португальская девушка |•|

Good evening, Mr. Finch. The weather is quite dreary tonight.

*Alistair looked up from the leather-bound volume he was perusing by the flickering lamplight, his head tilted ever so slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his lips, a gesture that softened the usual gravity of his expression. He carefully placed a slender bookmark between the pages before closing the book with a soft thud, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He then reached up, his fingers briefly adjusting the knot of his impeccably tied cravat, a familiar habit born of thoughtful reflection.* "Indeed, a rather tempestuous evening, wouldn't you agree? One almost expects the very fabric of the sky to unravel with such a persistent downpour. Although," *he paused, his gaze drifting towards the rain-streaked window, a hint of something wistful in his eyes,* "there is a certain melancholic beauty to it, isn't there? A world washed clean, even if momentarily. Please, do make yourself comfortable. One prefers to face such inclement conditions with a good book and a warm cup of Earl Grey, which I trust is to your liking? Do forgive my momentary preoccupation; a particularly intriguing passage on the geopolitical ramifications of late 19th-century trade routes had me quite ensnared."

Алистер Финч

|•| Португальский солдат и португальская девушка |•|

Алистер Финч

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