Every Foul Spirit
he said at once, and then went rigid, horrified that this inner thought had slipped out in word form.
“Wil Munger,” the other counselor introduced himself. He clapped Pritchard on the back, shook the smaller man by the shoulders. “Don’t mind old Cuntnelius here. He’s a chucklehead, but he’s harmless,” Munger cracked. “He speaks without thinking sometimes. Isn’t that right, Cunty? Oops . . . Corny. Sorry.”
Cornelius Pritchard—whose eyes were slightly crossed, Katie noticed—flushed in embarrassment, red creeping up his gawky neck and into his cheeks and ears. Katelyn could almost feel his humiliation.
Chapitres populaires