He? Can’t? A plump, sweet-nectared blossom of intrigue in the endless sand of existence. With an inward wonder flailing for release, dear old Pasmo plucks the flower. “Such as what, insolent boy?”
“Such as four beats where two ought to be, and a feminine grudge the size of Braxiatel’s TARDIS…” the Doctor muses as he crosses Pasmo’s study to lean like a dirty transient on the old man’s shelf, “...could the reason for your regret have something to do with a daughter, perhaps? I can easily imagine how you must see that unfortunate girl, Flamina, remembering your face when…”
One hand clutching a fistful of fabric out of sight beneath the big, warm lines of his desk, Pasmo considers the Doctor, his gaze much like a snake charmer recently availed of too many of his rupees at the open air market.
But the Doctor just smiles once and departs, calling back over his shoulder, “Well you know what they say… be careful which flowers you eat in the desert – don’t eat the ones that rustle or you might wake up in a box with a swollen tongue. Or a stab wound, depending on your so-called relations.”
My my my my my. And what to make of this?