"Are you suggesting we will get
hurt?" The man of the pale-blond hair had a sudden expression gripping his face between outraged and striken with fear. "Don't be making accusations like that, or do you mean us all to get - I mean, the women to get
scared."
T-the nerve of some people... Will you look at that? Even in his thoughts, his fear was transparent. The man re-positioned himself, cross-legged on his seat, as if that gave him a greater feeling of confidence. Right now it wasn't doing much. Just making him look oddly twist-seated and look a bit constipated.
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By this time, Anachrovica had swayed towards the front of the bus, as if she were rocking back and forth in time to the motion of a train. Those wavering eyes travelled towards the Asylum and her pale, long mouth pursed, consideringly. "So who's going to be a jolly good fellow and be up for the jaunt, then?" she said, chirpily, for her. "I'm sure you're all gagging for a go!"
"I'll go!" said the man of the glasses stepping forwards , as frail-looking as ever. But resolute, even valiantly. You would think he was the Harry Potter of their times... with not a bit of (*coughQuidditch-tannedcough*) muscle, though.
The bus driver was over there, hesitating, with a handkerchief still scrubbing about his face. "You'll see, I would need to go to London, now..." he said in a low voice, appologetically. He seemed to be talking directly to the man in the glasses.
The woman from before, who looked nearly about to have a stroke, made about to stand with haste, but was stopped by the couple from before. They suggested she stayed, that the men would look at this and bring her son back. The blond man made no motion to stand.