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Did you leave those for me? I suppose I shouldn't miss you. You should really turn yourself in, you know. Atrocities and all.
Yes. Via someone else’s hand, to be sure.
Turn myself in? No, I don’t think that is in the cards, Ms Lounds. I much prefer my freedom. Wouldn’t you?
tattle-crime replied to your post:This begs the question, what does a polite young lady have to do to get invited over for dinner next time you make pizza? (PS - I can travel)
I can vouch that he makes some of the best pizza in existence.
Thank you, Ms Lounds.
WHERE ARE YOU? :D (can't blame a girl for trying) what REALLY happened between you and Agent Graham?
Right here.
And that is none of your business, Ms Lounds, no matter which way you meant that question.
I have to admit, I thought Ms Lounds more tenacious of spirit than she was in the end. There was a part of me that thought she would outlast us all.
This has been sitting on my couch since the funeral, because I couldn't think of anything eloquent to say. In the end, I'm still unsure.
Just this: she will be missed.
It grieves me to hear about the disappearance of Ms Lounds (tattle-crime). We have become rather friendly with one another, and I bring her macarons or other sweets every so often, since I know she has a sweet tooth.
This is the last meal I shared with her.
I do so hope she is found soon, and alive. She is missed.
I just wanted to see if you agreed that when hannibal says "you slice the ginger" it was the most slept on cannibal joke of the series.
"slept on" I've never heard that phrase, don't even know if it's positive or negative.
I liked it, unfortunately, it look me 2 hours after the joke was made to realise!
The last choristers trailed out of the cathedral, carrying their vestments over their arms. Hannibal went inside. Notre Dame was dark but for the votive candles. He went to St. Joan of Arc, in marble near a southside exit. Before her, tiers of candles flared in the draft from the door. Hannibal leaned against a pillar in the darkness and looked through the flames at her face. Fire on his mother’s clothes. The candle flames reflected redly in his eyes. The candlelight played on St. Joan and gave random expressions to her face like chance tunes in a wind chime. Memory, memory. Hannibal wondered if St. Joan, with her memories, might prefer a votive other than fire. He knew his mother would.
Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising
tattle-crime replied to your post:R u and agetn gram doing it?
Like I would ever write that badly.
You do when you are trolling, sometimes. I have seen you do it.
