Jack needed a break from the research, and writing and mailing postcards soothed his mind. It was, perhaps, best not to ask how the postcard he sent Jan. 10, 1902 was already in Mitchell's mailbox. The interdimensional post office had its ways.
Mitchell: Not dead yet, and please tell Kate that if she asks. Am in Paris chasing monsters. You know, for a change. (Remember how my world isn't meant to have werewolves? Need to revise that opinion.) But seem to be on verge of some political success. Will be back in touch soon. - Jack P.S. Observe technological marvels on converse.
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On the back of this image, he wrote:
Mitchell: Not dead yet, and please tell Kate that if she asks. Am in Paris chasing monsters. You know, for a change. (Remember how my world isn't meant to have werewolves? Need to revise that opinion.) But seem to be on verge of some political success. Will be back in touch soon. - Jack P.S. Observe technological marvels on converse.
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//And Tiny is!//
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...If you're up to your ears in vampire bullshit, expect me on your doorstep anyway; there'll just be less sex.
Probably."
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Well, there was a reason to be grateful for the English weather after all.
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