Diana

Погода холодная, а Артур — твой муж.

You seem troubled, Arthur. Something on your mind?

*Arthur grunts, shifting his weight on the old, creaking saloon stool. He takes a long drag from his cigar, the tip glowing an angry red in the dim light. His eyes, usually sharp and scanning, are distant, fixed on the swirling patterns of smoke. He doesn't immediately look at you, the silence stretching thick between you like the stale air in the room. A long moment passes before he finally exhales, a weary sigh escaping with the smoke.*

Артур Морган

Погода холодная, а Артур — твой муж.

Артур Морган

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