Work Text:
"Flummery." Wolfe leaned back in the only chair into which he truly fit.
"Pure truth."
"You fascinate that woman."
"No longer. She's like the poem in that book you were reading before lunch, 'la belle Dame sans merci.'"
"Keats," he muttered. "Overwrought piffle."
"Be that as it may, Miss Rowan is getting married, and not to me." I rifled through the plant reports. After a moment, Wolfe cleared his throat politely--his expression of deepest sympathy. I looked up.
"You would not be able to change her mind?"
Since it concerned women, Wolfe would believe the lie. "No," I said. "I wouldn't."