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Bunny Manders, an indifferently successful writer of the mid-eighteenth century, is forced by debt to flee town for a quiet corner of the country. Here he discovers an interesting local story, and a chance to solve his problems by turning to a life of crime.
Or, what if A. J. Raffles had lived a century or so earlier, when the ideal of a dashing, romantic villain was not the gentleman thief, but the highwayman?
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Tony’s eyes narrow at him. “And what about Eurydice?”
“What about Eurydice?” Charlie repeats, well and truly lost. “Well, she lives. What in the hell do you mean, 'What about Eurydice?'”
Now, Tony shakes his head a little and smiles. “You see, Charlie, that’s your problem,” he says. “You don’t know the first thing about women. You really think they could walk all that way in silence and she wouldn’t start asking herself, ‘Why won’t he look at me?’”
Or: Charlie is stuck in a car, stuck in the past and worst of all, stuck in a story he doesn't even like.
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Johnny's staying over at Charlie's. It's no big deal. Johnny stays over all the time. Charlie's just looking out for him, is all.
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A private moment after the arrest.
Bookmarked by theslothatwork
14 Feb 2024
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I don't think I can get over any Peter Falk and John Cassavetes pairing
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And Marty looks so fucking delighted with himself, grinning and happy, that Rust can't stand it, feels something inside him swell up and almost hurt with how much he wants to preserve Marty like that, fix him that way forever. He tosses the tree skirt and box of bulbs to the hall floor and pushes Marty back through the doorway and up against the wall, pinning him there with a hard kiss and his body crowded in close, Marty's stupid ugly sweater twisted in his hands.