"Do you think she can see us from in there?"
"Naw-she's busy."
"She's deep in thought, she is-but what could she be thinking about?"

"How long's she been in there?"
"Seven days. I bring her food and drink. I take it out again. She's got enough paper in there to last another week."

"Wasn't her brother the mad historian who went digging into the secrets of the gray caps? Didn't he go under the city?"
"He's there now, some say, along with the snails and the cursed gray caps."
"What's she do then?"

"What could she be typing so furiously?"
"The story of your life. A history of pubs and bars. How should I know."
"Whatever it is, it must be important. To her."
"Funny. That typewriter's like an echo. It falls away when we stop talking."
"Yes, yes it does! Do you think she's...?"
"Naw-I must be wrong. Hasn't got anything to do with us. Hasn't got anything to do with us."