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Erik David Even
There was a fair number of locals in the common room, all young men who appeared to be friends of the inn-keeper, himself a Welshman in his 20s. Lennon and Delapore were the only foreigners until supper was being served, when a newcomer arrived.
He was a tall English gentleman, almost Lennon’s height, and about his age too, in his mid 30s. He was clean-shaven, with features that Lennon would call “chiseled,” and blue eyes that Lennon would call “penetrating.” His head was covered with a brown periwig, one in the shorter, more reserved style of an English country gentleman.
He wore a red body-coat, reminiscent of Lennon’s crimson justaucorps, but of a far more refined and simple design, along with a white cravat and knee-breeches. His shoes bore buckles in the current London style. He was a man of wealth, but a man of the country, one who was perfectly aware of the London fashions, but only adhered to those that matched his taste.
The newcomer strode over to the inn-keep, and made arrangements for himself and his man. He disappeared for a few minutes to his upstairs room, and was followed soon after by a servant bearing a trunk. But within a quarter-hour, the newcomer was back in the common room, eager to make the acquaintance of what he took to be the only other two Englishmen in residence.
“James Gordon, Lord Ruthven,” he introduced himself with a bow.
|What I Write||
I am a graduate of Clarion West 2011. I am currently working a second novel while I shop the first one around, and I am publishing a web serial.
During the write-a-thon, I intend to finish the last 30,000 words of the first draft of my second novel.
If I could get ten people to donate $10, that would be $100, because math.