The punishment William's doled out on account of the missing soul is rather fierce; a scouring search of London, well after midnight. Though Grell's dramatic lamentations about the Sheer Brutality of Winter have long since ended, the battering chill of wind has not.
"Is he always this lame?" Ronald asks, teeth chattering.
"Get used to it, darling," Grell sighs. "Although-- Will has his soft spots, though they wouldn't do you any good. Say--"
Grell leans closer, and Ronald can smell her perfume.
"Would you like to hear a funny story," and she grins-- "about Will and I, and silk stockings?"