Who's Love?

.
.
.
.
.
"Come, come Davies. One couldn't have wronged enough to be greeted thus & still roam freely on the street."
"Your father keeps me far from the streets this man walks on, Master Reggie. He bows lower to your father than to the Mayor himself. Be not deceived by his looks, I know him better than that stool, which seats him for his daily drink. He is a scoundrel of the worst kind, if there ever was one, and a nasty one at that.”
The ale seemed to set his tongue wagging a lot more than it would have back home. I gave a quick look around the place, looking for a face that was looking hard at me. Fortunately there were none.
"Worried, Master Reggie? Me thinks, you are," and before I could protest in defense,
.
.
.
.
.
.