Suddenly, I seem to have an off-color pun for *everything*.
There are no good guys in Marlowe: only people you pity more than you hate, and the odd doomed innocent.
Bookkeeping: 1423 hard-fought words
Reason for stopping: No *clue* what happens next.
"...and they--are dangerous men. Even for a roguish fellow like myself, whose works drip with gore, unacquainted with gentle thoughts."
"Can the man who wrote Hero and Leander claim to be unacquainted with gentle thoughts?"
"Acquainted and yet unacquainted," Kit answered, laughing in return. The iron grew warm through his breeches; he shifted before it could scorch the fabric. The tip was not yet glowing red, he judged with a sideways glance. "It's a quaint little thing, that is to say: a poem about passion--"
"Kit, it's a poem about Leander's arse."