about the ingratitude of contemporary teenagers and the death of polite society,
and Lidewij, somewhat hysterical, shouted back at him in rapid-fire Dutch.
“You’ll have to forgive my former assistant,” he said. “Dutch is not so much a language as an ailment of the throat.”
Augustus pulled me out of the room and through the door to the late spring morning and the falling confetti of the elms.
For me there was no such thing as a quick getaway, but we made our way down the stairs, Augustus holding my cart,
and then started to walk back toward the Filosoof on a bumpy sidewalk of interwoven rectangular bricks.
For the first time since the swing set, I started crying. “Hey,” he said, touching my waist. “Hey. It’s okay.”
I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my hand. “He sucks.” I nodded again.
“I’ll write you an epilogue,” Gus said. That made me cry harder.
“I will,” he said. “I will. Better than any shit that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese.
He doesn’t even remember writing the book. I can write ten times the story that guy can.
There will be blood and guts and sacrifice. An Imperial Affliction meets The Price of Dawn. You’ll love it.”
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