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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 1, 2008 2:11:44 GMT -5
Riff stared at the dark sheen of the table as Parisians strolled by the window to his right, heedless of either him or his worries. He had quite a bit to worry about, too. A deteriorating mental state; a worse reputation; a respectable woman with whom he was hopelessly besotted; and a murderous madman laying threats on his life. He lifted his head a bit and watched some people come in, but it wasn't Aiden. He had given a note to another violinist to pass along, which was hardly a good idea, but it found its way to a person on occasion. It had stated in plain language Riff's need to see him this day, this time, at this place. Part of him hoped that he had gotten in and would arrive soon, and another part regretted the note already. He talked to Aiden as seldom as possible, especially because he must know about Riff's open ventures into the Paris underworld.
With a silent appraisal of the waiter hovering undecided at his left, he acknowledged how out of place he felt here. The good-natured chatter of polite people was not something that he was accustomed to anymore. He could communicate more easily in the language of the stagehands, which consisted mostly of drunk cursing and noncommittal grunts. He didn't enjoy that company any more than this, though. Was he forever doomed to feel out of place?
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