*Leah*
The following afternoon, using a thin but sharp blade, I am carefully removing the leather cover from the book Tommy Turner had brought me when Marianne raps on the doorjamb. Looking up from my desk, I wonder why her brow is furrowed so deeply and her mouth pinched. “Is something amiss?”
“There’s a gent here who wants to talk to you.” She says.
“Who wants to talk to me?” I ask.
She sighs. “The gent. The gent what is out here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them. Marianne is sharp but has grown up with very little education. Although her grammar has improved greatly since coming to work at the shop, challenges still present themselves. “It’s the gent who, not the gent what.”
Marianne appears even more flummoxed. I wave my hand dismissively. “Never mind. We will discuss it l
