Everything had an answer, or, well, at least everything that could have some sense of logic behind it. Ples was full of them. Why do you dress so upscale It's the easiest to tailor for myself, as strange as it sounds! or what is that ticking noise It is my pocket watch, a part is broken inside, so it does sound rather loud, I apologize! or how do you manage to hold your liquor so well That, I am afraid, is a secret of my own! Or why in the blazes do you have that ratty turtleneck sweater that's too big on you.
That, was something he could not answer.
Even if he could, Ples wouldn't give one. It was the only top that wasn't dry cleaned like his shirts or his vests or his trousers, even his more casual undergarments and pajamas were washed separately from the sweater. It was his secret, as if he already didn't have enough.
When the weather in the morning paper predicted rain for the evening, his lips would curl up in his own private excitement. Work would follow, and