[ There’s nothing quick about the way Jorah draws himself up in mirror of George’s squared shoulders. His tired muscles wind upright with pride that doesn’t have much place in an abandoned house, with an armload of chair and a beard full of blood. It serves to make him look larger than he is, and he’s already a brute.
But he’s a brute with brain enough to look George over head to toe, wary of the shapeless heap of his coat.
For the stretch of silence it takes him to calculate whether or not George is going to be a problem, it seems increasingly likely that he might be a mute. Deaf, perhaps, or just dumb. ]
I don’t have any ‘Lucifers.’ [ he says, at length, squinting. And then: ]
Jorah.
[ Past that, he seems content to stick to his doorway, and to his heap of wood. ]
no subject
But he’s a brute with brain enough to look George over head to toe, wary of the shapeless heap of his coat.
For the stretch of silence it takes him to calculate whether or not George is going to be a problem, it seems increasingly likely that he might be a mute. Deaf, perhaps, or just dumb. ]
I don’t have any ‘Lucifers.’ [ he says, at length, squinting. And then: ]
Jorah.
[ Past that, he seems content to stick to his doorway, and to his heap of wood. ]
Take off your coat.