All language subtitles for Bookish - 01x01 - Slightly Foxed Part.1

They don't get any lighter.

All the latest news.

Bit lost, love?

Ah... 158?

Just there, sweetheart.

Ta.

Hold that, would you?

What do you make of it?

- Looks old.
- It is.

Barely indifferent Jacobean poetry,

calfskin binding, worth a couple of bob.

What are these brown spots on the pages?

You get straight to the heart of the
matter, Mr... um...

Jack. It's just Jack.

That's called foxing, Jack-just-Jack.

It's what time does to books.

To all of us.

In the profession, we say
it's "slightly foxed." Interested?

You know, there's a mistake.

A mistake?

Well, isn't there?

- Above the door, a sign.
- What about it?

Well, it's wrong, isn't it?
There's no apostrophe in "books."

- There is.
- There isn't.

- There is.
- There isn't.

- There is.
- There isn't.

There is. If your name is Book and
you own the shop. Which it is. And I do.

My name is Book. Book's books.

Confusing, I know. Or is it handy?
I can never decide.

Anyway, I'm Book and I run a bookshop.

This one, obviously.
You must be here about the job. Tea?

Not quite there yet.

I'm trying to make ginger snaps.

- How much?
- Where were you dragged up?

One for each person and one for the pot.

Oh.

Where have we got to, Jack-just-Jack?

Uh, this is dog,

Book, dog, job.

I have a little hobby on the side,

and I find it's taking me away
from the shop more and more.

So, I require assistance.

God.

Oh, that's better.
I must have tea.

Without tea, I am merely
unreconstituted dust.

Look, this isn't really my sort of gaff.

I mean, I thought they'd maybe send me
to a factory or something.

They?

Well, you know where
I've come from, don't you?

- You know that I was...
- No need to mention it again.

What are you hoping for now?
You've got the job, Jack-just-Jack.

I just want to keep my head down, you know.

Try and get back to normal.
Wait, I've got the job?

Normality is overrated. Yes,
you got the job. If you want it.

Darling, you must come at once.

- Oh.
- Uh... Trottie, this is Jack. Just Jack.

Jack, this is Trottie, my wife.

Hello.

- Hello.
- Well, what is it?

The bomb site. The men clearing the bomb site.
You know where Inkermman Street used to be?

Oh, yes, that one. What of it?

Well, they found something
in suspicious circumstances.

My favourite kind of circumstances.

Sync and corrections: minouhse
www.addic7ed.com

I was wondering if we'd be seeing you.

- Like a bad penny, Sergeant.
- Yeah, well, you know my feelings.

You've made them exquisitely plain,

but as you know, I do have
a special letter from Churchill.

Yeah,

All right.

Oh, hello Book.

Mrs. Book, thought this might
be up your street.

Almost literally.

Start at the beginning, inspector,
and leave nothing out.

Especially if it's salacious,
gory, or vaguely scandalous.

Bit of a puzzle. Mr. Basehart here
was starting to clear away the rubble

- from his old bomb site the other day.
- Inkerman Street caught it in 44, didn't it?

Yes, sir. Terrible pounding.

- Do you remember that raid, sir?
- How could I forget?

Trottie and I ended up cheek
by jowl in the Anderson shelter

with the man from the credential
insurance company.

He had lovely fingernails.

Terrible halitosis.

Those shelters weren't built for sharing.

War's over, Mr. Basehart.

Quite so, sir. But I still like to
patrol my route for old time's sake.

And to keep an eye on old Brenda there,

my trusty searchlight.

Well, here he was trying to clear away
the rubble when lo, what does he find?

Lo? What?

Heavens to Betsy.

Tossed together like a skeletal salad.
How many?

It's hard to tell, cuz they're all
jumbled up. But 10 or 12, I'd say.

Quite why Mr. Basehart didn't tell the
authorities about his discovery forthwith

- is another matter.
- He didn't?

No. Some kiddies who were playing here
let us know.

As I was saying, I have a theory.

Well, obviously they copped it
in the raid, didn't they?

What do you think, Jack?

- Me?
- You.

Uh,

yeah. That's what must have happened.

Air raid killed him.

Died 2 years ago
and now they're all rotted away.

That would be a logical assumption.

Who's this?

So, you don't think
they died in an air raid?

If you recall, Inkerman Street was
already empty, wasn't it, Mr. Basehart?

Scheduled for demolition.

So, nobody was living here, in which case.

- Who are they?
- Well, anybody, surely?

Anybody could have taken shelter from
the bombing in one of the empty houses?

A dozen of them. What about clothes?

- Clothes?
- All flesh is grass.

The raid was only 2 years ago.

Even if the bodies had rotted away,
their clothes would still be intact.

I think Mr. Basehart and I are
thinking along similar lines.

Well,

that would appear to be the clincher.

What do you think?

The unmistakable bonds of King Charles II.

Oh, does it have a date on it, too?

1665.

Plague pit, yeah?

So, it would seem.

- A what?
- Plague pit.

The great plague.

London's burial grounds were overflowing,

so they dug these great big pits
and dumped all the corpses in them.

I'm a bit of an archaeologist.

On the side, strictly amateur,
you understand?

So, why didn't you tell us
straight away when you found them?

Well, I knew I'd never get
a chance like this again.

I just wanted a bit of time
to excavate them.

Fascinating stuff.

I really am very sorry, Inspector.

Yes. Well, no harm done, I suppose.

Not sure about that.

These skeletons might still be lively.

Well, you mean it's still catching.

The jury, as they say, is out,

but I think it's very unlikely.
Do you mind if I hang on to this?

- You're welcome to it.
- Right, Mr. Book?

Well, hello, Nora.

Why I'm not surprised to see you here?

Did you know that back then
they used to use great catapults

to toss plaguey corpses
into besieged cities

to deliberately infect people?

- That's horrible, Nora.
- I know.

And a split infinitive.
Even more horrible.

Might be worth a bit too.

Sergeant, get this lot.

Taken care of in a pronto with care.

And where to, sir?

Uh... uh... morgue, I suppose.

Get Dr. Gold to take a shufty.

See if there's any chance
they're still infectious.

Sure.

- Thank you, Book.
- Аnytime, Inspector.

Sergeant.

Why can't you collect stamps
like normal people?

Oh dear.

Are you all right?

Yeah. Um,

it's all just a bit, uh...

being coppers.

I've uh been away, you see. And...

Oh, yes, I know.

Can't have been very nice.

Tell me all about it when you're ready.
Hey, let me take this.

Well, you must stay with us, mustn't you?

Now that you've got the job.
I have the premises next door.

Book has his books.
I have my wallpaper.

And there is a darling little
attic room between the two.

Why are you helping me like this?

Why not?

What old Harkop?

- Suicide, I heard.
- Heard?

Uh, from your colleague over there.

Oh, I’ll have his ruddy guts for garters.

- This goes against all the rules.
- Of right, Sergeant. All right.

Mr. Book's always welcome to give us
the benefit of his wisdom, as you know.

Yes.

Yes.

Bad business, Book, very bad.
Poor sod.

But look, Morris has a point.
This is a plain ordinary suicide.

I mean, I can be flexible, as you know.

When something a little bit more...

Recherche, entrée,
anything with an acute accent.

Unusual comes along like
our friends the skeleton.

But this is a meat-and-potatoes job.

You know the sergeant and I are
perfectly capable...

Who found him?

Charwoman, Ada Dredge.

Pretty shook up, she is.

Dredge... it rings a little bell.

She's been doing
for Harkup for donkeys’ years.

Ding dong.

- Was there a note?
- No, no note.

How did he do it?

Prussic acid.

Nasty.

Аnd intriguing, don't you think?

Mr. Harkup?

Afraid so.
Looks like suicide.

Oh, dreadful.

Well, I'd better get on.

Too much excitement for one day.

Jack, nip back the shop, would you?

There's a pile of newspapers.
Third stack on the right as you come in.

Charing Cross Dispatch underneath

two volumes of Eleanor of Castile
and the wilting aspidistra.

Fetch them for me would you?

Okay.

And put the kettle on again.

We're going to have company.

All right.

Oh, well, see as it's from him.

Oh, I brought a coffee
and walnut cake round for Mr. Harkup.

You might as well have it.

This is your usual char day.

Yes, every week regular as clockwork.

But I only saw him yesterday

popped around to get some bandages.

Bandages?

Oh, my son.
He was injured in the war.

He needs constant attention.
The dressing.

What time did you see Mr. Harkup?

Six... six-ish, I think.

It doesn't seem possible.

Him standing there
all full of life and then.

Finding him lying there like that.

You're doing very well.
And was he?

Was he?

Full of life when you saw him
in good spirits, I mean.

Well, to be honest,
he seemed a little down.

Though why’d he want to go and do a
horrible thing like that to himself.

Any vices?

Vices, sir.

We must investigate all angles,
alas, dear lady.

Man of very regular habits.
He was at church every Sunday.

Kept his accounts in very neat order.
I think that was the soldier in him.

He... he did play dominoes.

Dominoes?

Every Monday and Thursday night

in the Bull with Mr. Basehart
and some others.

Does that count as a vice?

- I hardly think so.
- He have any family?

My mother always said, "If you can't
say anything nice about someone,

don’t open your trap".

So, there was... bad blood then?

There's a daughter, isn't there?
Some estrangement.

I wouldn't like to say.

Don't seem right.

What with Mr. H not cold in his grave?

Heavens, this cake.

- Yes.
- Oh, it's superb.

Oh, too kind, sir.

But then I'd expect nothing less.

Oh, why'd you say that?

From Miss Lyon's Corner House, 1921.

Fancy you knowing that.

It was 1922, though.

- My mistake.
- How the Dickens.

Oh, I store up a lot
of little tidbits like that.

Mostly useless.

Must have been a lovely experience.

Oh yes.

Oh, I've never felt so glamorous.

I bought a new hat
and the Lord Mayor winked at me.

- Winked.
- Fancy.

Worked there for years.
I did at the corner house.

So I got very good with the baking.

Mr. H used to love my
pineapple upside down.

You know, it really would be most
helpful to know why he and his daughter

Sarah, uh...

- Marula...
- Marula, that's right.

Why he and Marula no longer saw eye to eye.

Well, seeing as you've been so kind, sir.

- Very good of you.
- She was a cow.

All right? Horrible, money
grabbing little cow.

I see.

Apple of his eye she was,
after his wife passed on.

But she knew how to twist
him around her little finger.

Nothing was too much for
his little princess.

Oh, and then she has the
gall to run off with him.

Him?

Mickey. Mickey Hall.
It's a right ne’er-do-well.

Up to all sorts in the war.
Spy stuff, you know.

Black market.

He's a motor mechanic.

They've got a garage out Mile End way.

- Mile End?
- Charming.

And now Marula will inherit the lot.

Don't seem right, do it?

No, it, um...

Don't. Thanks for the cake.

What the hell do you think you're doing?

Just being neighbourly, Sergeant.

Uh... your witness, I think.

- Hello again.
- Oh, hello, Book.

I just wondered if I could have a little
nosy around before I head out.

- See if I can help at all.
- Head out.

Oh, Mrs. Book and I
are often pleasure bent.

The new boys, babysitting.

Oh, for the dog.

Dog? There's no definite article.

Off to the pictures.

There's a rerunning of Sandra Dare
at the Rialto.

The opera.

Fat ladies singing.

Speaking of which, may I, um...

There's a daughter, but Mrs. Dredge
says they didn't get on.

So, I gather.

Yeah, we're endeavouring to trace her.

She has a garage, Mile End.

Oh, right.
Thanks.

Funny, aren't they?

Mrs. Bliss goes in for something similar.

Little... little knickknacks.

Not quite the same, I think.

These are jade, rather fine.

And this one...

Mr. Harkup was obviously
a connoisseur.

- Do you think it was suicide?
- You have doubts?

I do. What's your theory?

- Evening, gentlemen.
- Evening.

- Oh, Eric. Black Lamb and Grave Falcon.
- Hey?

That book for Sheila.
It's arrived.

Oh, smashing.
Um, she'll come over tomorrow for it.

- Right.
- Whet your whistle?

Oh, thank you.

I was never keen on him myself.

Harkup.

God forgive me.

- Bit of a little Hitler.
- Still poor bugger offing himself like that.

So... is that your theory?

Patience, Inspector. Patience.

The two most powerful warriors
are patience and time. Tolstoy.

Oh, I couldn't get into it.

I tried that one, you know, where she
chucks herself in front of a train.

- No.
- No.

- Book.
- Inspector.

Too much?

No, not at all. Uh...

You look amazing.

I meant the walls.

- Oh.
- Book says it's an affront to good taste,

I think it has a certain something,
don't you?

I'm good at knocking things together.
I always have been.

Wardrobes, wireless sets, heads.

I was in the Land Army. Gin?

What? Oh, yeah, please.

So, you're going out then?

I do. We're always going out.

Well, one has to live, doesn't one?

Especially after the time we've all had.

There's some chops in the larder I think.

Your room's up at the top.
I've aired the sheets.

You're...

I mean...

Thank you.

Better go and unpack.

- Well.
- Well?

I know that look.
You're onto something.

Nonsense. Merely the happy
look of a contented man.

I have my lovely wife,
my lovely shop, my lovely dog.

- What more could a man ask for?
- Broad.

Three things then.

Mr. Harkup collected Chinese jade
figures of exceptional quality.

But dust is eloquent.

As someone once said, dust doesn't lie.

One of the figures has been
replaced with a bit of cheap trash,

a chess piece, but the larger
outline remains clear.

Mrs. Dredge hasn't cleaned in a while,
despite what she said.

Secondly. Mr. Harkup

has a small lump on the back of his head.

Not caused by him falling, I don't think.

Or, probably, a blow
with a blunt instrument.

A blunt instrument that
didn't break the skin.

And yet, there is blood on the back
of Mr. Harkup's scalp.

- Thirdly.
- Yes?

Darkling I listen;

and, for many a time I have been
half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names
in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath.

Pardon?

Why would a chemist with every known
gentle poison in the shop

choose to kill himself with
something as horrible

as prussic acid?

Well, Book.
There you are, then.

Yes, Trottie. There we are.

It's murder.

- Book?
- Mrs. Book?

Be careful.

Shop.

Ah, good morning.

- How can I help?
- Oh, well, I'm...

- I'm after a book.
- You are very much in the right place.

What do you think, young man?
What would suit the lady best?

Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Henry James.

Do you have the new Georgette Heyer?

Ah.

- Well, I've read all her other ones.
- Me too, and what a smasher she is.

But that would be a new book, miss um...

Mrs. Goodwin.

- Mrs. Goodwin.
- Jean.

Jean. We don't really go for those,
do we?

We should try Foyle’s.

It's a bit of a trudge,
with my feet being what they are.

I have the perfect alternative.

One who is spinning romantic yarns

when Miss Heyer
was still in the cradle, probably.

- Oh, well, if you think that...
- Shh.

- But I mean, if you'd recommend...
- Shh.

Beg your pardon, I'm sure.

Sorry, thinking. Ah.

- Orczy.
- Never heard of him.

Her. Baroness, Hungarian.

The Scarlet Pimpanel.

Oh, I've heard of that.

French Revolution.

It's a delight. You won't regret it.

When you've finished, come
back and I'll find you the sequel.

Oh, that's very good of you.
What do I hear of you?

Oh, let's call it a bob. Hang on.

Feet, feet, feet, feet. Ah.

This is free.

Oh, I couldn't possibly.

Well, there's nothing.
But sending you off

happily on the bus without further
bunions is a price above rubies.

Wouldn't you agree, Jean?

- Thank you.
- Cheer by.

Come on, woman.

I'll never make any money
like that, will I?

Hey-ho. Now then, Jack,
excited to start the day.

There's a whole world of learning in here.

All human life and some inhuman.
Still got that coin?

Well, oh, uh, yeah.
Yeah, of course.

Good.

I don't mean to pry, Mr. Book,
but um...

what exactly is it you do?

I would have thought that was obvious.

I sell books.

Yeah, but that's not all, is it?

Yesterday out there at the bomb site,

- a chat with a charlady.
- Yes.

Well, is that like your...

your hobby?

I mean, the way you talk to those coppers,

where they let you roam around that pit.

Are you like some sort of adviser
to them or something?

I mean, why should they listen to you?

They frequently don't, more fool them.

I did the inspector
a favour once during the war.

He hasn't forgotten.

Also, I have a special letter.

A letter from Churchill.
Yeah, the cop has said that.

A letter saying what?

It's a chaotic world, Jack.

I have a system.

Sometimes people like me to give
an opinion on things,

impose a little order.
That's all.

You can read all sorts of things,

as well as books.

This...

- This is your system.
- Yes.

What's wrong with it?

Well, they're not in any kind of order.

Cataracts of denial.

Diseases of the eye and their treatment.

Cataracts. Eye disease. Logical.

The guillotine. A practical guide.

The life and death of Alfred Mutton's Gent.

Coins of the realm.

I mean, there's no system.
There's no system at all.

Well, it's all up here, isn't it?
How best to explain?

Alfred Martins was a career criminal,

very successful forger in his day,

which was Queen Victoria's day.
Extraordinary chap in his field.

He was a coiner, a forger of coins,

but his luck ran out in Paris
and they chopped off his head,

which is why all those books
are clumped together, you see.

Yeah, but that's...

I mean, that's silly.

Nevertheless.

Well, I shall leave you to, uh,

hold the fort.

Slightly foxed.

Slightly foxed.

Says it all.

- Morning.
- Yeah. Uh, can I help you?

I've come to collect an order.

Uh, right. Um, what's the name?

Sheila Wellbeloved.

Hello.

- Jack?
- Yeah.

I'm Nora.
We've got lots to talk about.

- Thank you, miss. Again, very sorry for you.
- Can I go now?

Well, if you wouldn't
mind just answering a few questions.

Um, would you just come with
me, please, miss.

Fascinating.

- Where better to hide a tree?
- Than in a forest?

And these markings.

Indeed.

- Book.
- Oh, hello.

Just checking in on those
skeletons with Dr. Calder here.

Ah, yes. Any risk of infection?

Quite safe on that,
County Inspector. However.

Ah.

Loose lips drop slips,
as they say in the nicker trade.

Wouldn't want to spoil
the surprise, would we?

Surprise?

Anyway, back to the case in hand,

this is Miss Marula Harkup.

Oh, my dear child, I'm so very sorry.

A few questions, you said.

Do you mind if I tag along?

Oh, don't forget that blood test, will you?

On its way.

Sorry about that.

There you go.
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon.

Sounds interesting?

Ta.

Getting the hang of it?

Slowly.

So, who are you?

Nora. I live across the road
in the Turkish restaurant.

Help out in the shop sometimes.

So, um...

Do you know them well
then, Mr. and Mrs. Book?

Yeah.

And do you know about his little hobby?

Bloody hell. Yes.
It's all I think about.

Isn't all that I mean,

- isn't that...
- Unhealthy?

I should think so.

What'd your mum and dad think?

Don't have any.

What do you mean?

Well, it was the war, wasn't it?

Everyone lost someone.

I lost them.

Sorry.

- What happened?
- So,

how we getting on anyway with the Books,

Mr. and Mrs.

It's not quite what I expected.

What is his Christian name, by the way?

What do you think?

Cook book, scrap book, mucky book.

Gabriel.

Ah.

Like the angel.

Archangel. I think you'll find

they're a dream.
Both of them such sweethearts.

So,

what's your story?

They think I'm hard.

I'm not sniffling,
boohooing all over the shop.

I mean, it's just not the way
I'm made. So there...

Your father.

I'm sorry that he's dead.

Of course I am. He was my dad.

In spite of everything.

He didn't make it easy to, um,

to love him though.

Can you think of any reason why
he'd want to take his own life?

None. No. He was nicely
set up with a shop and

well, mum had left him
a few bob when she died.

You don't think your estrangement?

No. Nothing to do with that.

He wasn't the type to get all emotional.

Maybe that's where I get it from.

I mean, he made it very clear

that he didn't approve of, um,

me and Mickey,

but um... he'd hardly have gotten killed
himself in a fit of the glums about it.

He just wasn’t the type, as I say.

Tell us about Mickey.

What's to say? He's my fellow.

How was his war?

Why do you ask that?

Well, we know how much our
father appreciated the armed forces.

Always wore his medal
ribbons with great pride.

Yes. Well, Mickey wasn't lucky.

His eyes, they're not good.

I say that's why he ended up with me.

I mean,

he wouldn't have been much
good against jerry with eyes like his.

Dad didn't like that.
Thought he was a shirker.

- That was the start of it.
- What was the finish?

Well, dad was convinced that
Mickey was thieving from him.

Cash?

Morphine.

Mickey got up to some shady business
during the war.

Just stockings, cigarettes, small stuff.

Dad had, um,

just got it into his head
that Mickey was bad.

- And he'd noticed morphine had gone missing.
- Yes.

Wouldn't speak to us.

But you've had a bit of news, haven't you?

I thought a little one might be the
thing that brings us back together.

What's all this about? Why are you so
interested in Mickey if...

dad has gone

and topped himself?

- Stories.
- Detective stories.

That's what I want to write.

I've got so many ideas. It's...

such an exciting new world out there.

Everything's all smashed up.
The whole world.

No one knows what to do anymore.

Well, I do.

The war turned everything upside down.
Shook it up. That's great.

There's no going back
to how things used to be.

- Including murders.
- Including murders.

Half the soldiers in Britain have come home

with pistols they stole from dead Nazis,

the country is awash with them.

So?

So we only seem civilised in this country
because we're not armed.

Think of all that throbbing
suburban passion.

Husbands having affairs with secretaries,

ladies having affairs
with their chauffeurs,

all those contested
wills and domestic rows.

People used to kill each other

by boiling down arsenic
from their wallpaper.

Now they just have to reach for a Luger.

Pow pow pow.

What did happen to your parents?

You're supposed to be telling me
your story.

I'm an orphan too.

I never knew my mum.

I got a picture of my dad.

That's all.

I’m sorry.

It's all right.

- I should um...
- Yeah.

- It was nice to meet you.
- It was an incendiary.

What?

An incendiary.

Set the roof on fire in the blitz.

Mom got me out, and...

went back for dad.

Then the roof fell in.

I just sat there

in the garden looking at the house.

Just

felt

sort of numb.

The ARP warden found me.

Then my uncle took me in. So...

now I have to help him out

with the restaurant.

But you'd rather be...

Much more exciting over here, isn't it?

See the skull.

I gave up pleasure for Lent.

I gave up Lent

for pleasure.

Well,

what's your answer?

I told you before, I'm just a book seller.

I sell books again
like I did before the war.

This would be

for old times’ sake.

And we did help you find

him.

Very kind of you.

How's all that working out?

It's complicated.

Well, yes, I imagine it is…

delicate.

And we wouldn't want anything to go wrong,

now, would we?

So,

what do we make of him? Mm?

- Jack, put him in the attic room.
- Like Mrs. Rochester.

Only slightly more butch.

Has it ever occurred to you
that you are such a...

- Bibliophile?
- Because of your name?

Nominative determinism.

I mean, if you've been called butcher,

you might be slicing
up choice cuts of meat.

Flensing, that's the word.

Removing fat from a carcass.
Wonderful descriptive word, flensing.

- I shall endeavour to bring it back.
- Well, I wish you joy with that.

Yes, you could be slipping me black market
chops under the counter like Mr. Wellbeloved.

Much more useful than books these days.

I could have been an archer or a baker
or a chandler.

- Speaking of which, farewell, my lovely.
- Oh, you're going out again.

You're so sharp you'll cut yourself.
Crime fiction, American.

Customer put in a request.
I know it's here somewhere.

- I saw a lady in the lake recently.
- Anyway, Jack.

Definite promise, definite promise.

He didn't try to flog that coin.

So, jail hasn't made a wrong ‘un for life.

Touchwood.

And the, uh,

other matter.

It's too soon to tell him.

What was so special about your book?

Nothing really. It's just
about some chaps at

school playing cricket.

And what do you think of Carol Darley?

- You've read Tim?
- Started it.

When?

After I saved it from the incinerator.

Book. What's your name?

Budge up.

It's a funny name.

Thank you.

Strotford Perry.

But my friends call me Trottie.

You're splendid.

- You owe me.
- I do.

So when I get into trouble here,
will you help me out?

Let us make a solemn pact.

Put your strong arms around me, Carol,

and raise me a little.

I can talk better so.

Carol bowed his head
without a word and kissed him,

and thus their friendship was sealed.

Good night, Mrs. Book.

Good night, Mr. Book.

The daughter, the spiv,
the char, the warden.

Who gave Harkup

the ruddy poison?

Absent friends.

Hi.

Sir, you'll never believe it.

It takes a lot to surprise me anymore.

- What? What is it?
- We just got the chemist's will through, sir.

- Yeah.
- Daughter doesn't get a bean.

- No.
- No.

Well, who does?

Oh, the char.

Mrs. Ada Dredge.

No.

No.

Sync and corrections: minouhse
www.addic7ed.com