At first he missed their conversations.
Alone in his London lodgings, after a week spent between Starecross hall and York with John Segundus,
John Childermass would find himself remembering their discussions on Vinculus the book and on magic, and on the new England that they would build with it.
He would recall them at the most inconvenient of moments; at night, while he sat in front of a fire, the book he was reading abandoned on his lap, or during supper,
tea growing cold in front of him, stew long since forgotten.
Every time he remembered, their conversations would change, refined and polished by Childermass into a form he liked better.
Here he would make himself less brusque, there Mr Segundus more pliable. He would give their conversations a facility they didn’t have, their gestures a levity neither of the two men possessed.
He wished them to be at ease, companionable and frank, and he suffered all the more for not knowing how to make it so.
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