Michael laughed and hesitantly made his way to the door. He paused a moment, his hand resting on the handle. He peered out the glass window. Miss Pettigrew, adorned in her fur finery and hair coiled around her head in a tight bun, stomped down the sidewalk. She stopped in the square and slowly scanned around her for signs of the young man, her hands on her hips. Michael snorted at her posture, which reminded him of a buzzard.
With a jump and awful smile, her eyes met his through the window and she immediately began her march to the building. Michael opened the door for her, and gave a quaint, shallow bow.
"Good morning," he said, and smiled sweetly.
"Good morning," Miss Pettigrew hissed in return. She glared at him. "I'm surprised at your pleasantries, Camps. Such a child usuay never has manners like that."
"Goodness!" Leslie cried in the background.
Michael raised his eyebrow.
"I'll make it quick," the old woman said. Her eyes beamed maleficently from behind her upturned nose, and the view of her chin was marvelously nauseating.
"You—"
"I'm sorry for harming the cat," Michael inturrupted. Miss Pettigrew gasped. "It will never happen again, I'll be more careful. And the rent will be on your doorstep in two days, I guarantee."
"I'm afraid that won't be necessary," the old woman purred. Her voice squawkedas she spoke.
"Mr. Camps, you are no longer welcome in Pettigrew's Public House. Your shennanigans have lasted too long. Please have your things packed today; I expect you to be gone by tonight. Leave your key under the doormat when you leave."
With that, Miss Pettigrew spun on a coin and waltzed out the door. It closed with the bright ring of a bell.
Michael gaped at the door, and found himself speechless. He tried to speak but his throat gagged itself, rendering him silent.