He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. Such freedoms from such people were not to be endured. A deadlock. Clothes. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. Love and companionship. From there I plan to travel until I reach Columbia—but any lawless country will do.
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