There are not multiple voices. At the moment, there is not even one voice. Instead, there is the faint scratching sound of a pen scritch-scritch-scritching its way across a page very near to the ground. Which makes sense, as Wysteria is sitting on the floor with the lowest drawer of one of the office's great cabinets pulled almost all the way out. She is rifling through the files with one hand, and taking notes in a booklet balanced on her knee with the other. A series of documents is scattered about her and for a split second there is an opportunity the obvious opportunity for a last minute escape. She hasn't noticed him yet. He might as of yet withdraw if he cared to--
But presumably, Mister Dickerson was required to steel himself to come this far. Perhaps that same bracing quality is what devours that opportunity now. For as soon as the possibility has arisen, so too does Wysteria's attention.
While still on the floor (under her skirts, her legs are criss-crossed and it would be difficult to rise immediately), she stops writing and twists toward the door.
"Ah, there you are Mister Dickerson! I'm so pleased you could find the time to see me. There is a chair just there. No, there. Behind the door. Feel free to draw it alongside if you prefer an alternative to the rug."
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Date: 2021-02-19 05:33 am (UTC)But presumably, Mister Dickerson was required to steel himself to come this far. Perhaps that same bracing quality is what devours that opportunity now. For as soon as the possibility has arisen, so too does Wysteria's attention.
While still on the floor (under her skirts, her legs are criss-crossed and it would be difficult to rise immediately), she stops writing and twists toward the door.
"Ah, there you are Mister Dickerson! I'm so pleased you could find the time to see me. There is a chair just there. No, there. Behind the door. Feel free to draw it alongside if you prefer an alternative to the rug."