"What plea is there to make?"
Those kinda gaze you foster when at the prime of annoyance. Like the track of your face become decked with varying emotive biles. The go-fuck-yourself kinda expression. Like how would I give a damn about what pricks my ire? Her tongue actually had been faster than her thoughts. She could had held them at the nick of escape, but had a rethink of letting them go. She wouldn't at the consequence scoff. She was ready to take responsibility for the semantic denotations the contention was draped in. She looked away from him and wanted to stand.
He reached for her hands and pulled her back into the seat. She was mad! Like she was going to run mad! What sorta a guy was he? He wasn't going to repeat what he'd said, wouldn't head to the next point, but would only keep her sitting on go-and-say-sorry-to-the-literature-teacher. If he was truly what he'd professed himsel
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