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2016-11-14 08:08 pm (UTC)
Oh yes, she'd suggested hurrying, hadn't she. Turns out she'd underestimated her grandfather's long determined strides and she's struggling to keep up as he's pulling her along, desperately hoisting up her bedraggled skirts with her free hand. The sooner they reach the light, the better.
It's good to be reminded that this will pass, that the world won't end in lightning and noise, and breakfast will be wonderful. "I'd like that," she agrees wistfully, probably too quietly to be heard above the din of the storm. Rallying a bit more vigor to her voice, she adds, "I fancy you must have experienced oodles of unfortunate circumstances in your adventures, much more adverse than a spot of rain." So he certainly knows what he's talking about. Her own ways of coping with frightful storms are perhaps rather silly in comparison, but hopefully somewhat diverting. "I used to imagine I could negotiate with the North Wind. I'd offer it a poem or a flattering illustration, or my next meal when I'd run out of ink. It was a bloody stubborn bugger, let me tell you."
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