*Leah*
At eight, Tommy Tuner has an honest, but dirty face with large, guileless brown eyes that, in all of my dealings with him, have never once not been steady as they hold my gaze.
Thanks to Michael, as I examine the tattered book with several pages that have come loose of their mooring, I doubt the lad. "Where did you say you found it?"
"In the neighborhood, in the street, just lyin' there, abandoned loike." He says.
"Not from a bookstall, where it could have been easily plucked from a cart or box?" I raise a brow.
He shakes his head. "No, Miss Tempest. That'd be stealin', woodn't it? I ain't no thief."
He appears truly hurt that I have questioned the origins of his find, and I feel guilty about having done so. It's one of the better ones he has brought to me. With a little lovin
