They all watched uncomfortably as he sat down suddenly on the edge of his straw-stuffed mattress looking upset.
"You know? Things were going great for me, then one window breaks in the middle of winter, and suddenly I'm out on my ear because of my retarded, emotion-retentive brain, and it's so hard, becuase I can't do anything about it, and now the authorities know from their dastardly lab tests that I'm a changeling it's on my file...and unless i get a fairly bad job I won't actually get a job at all. No-one will employ a changling. Not because they don't want to. It's a new part of the legislation. No-one dares go against it...it's punishable by death, so I suppose I get where they're coming from." He released a sudden heavy sigh, which had more than a hint of a sob. In an instant Jemima was kneeling before him, clutching at his blue-tinted fingers with her mittened ones.
"You mus'n think like that, Durrington. None of this is your faul', and now you're 'ere and we'll look after you," she sought out his deep brown eyes with her own light blue ones, "I promise. This is the las' time they'll take advantage of you."