[Caesar recognizes the look. Of course I'm not yours. The hope, the suspicion, the evaluation and the strain. He is used to being treated as the "wrong" version of himself; obviously there is some kind of absolute standard regarding Caesar Silverbergs and he fails to meet it. It was nothing he couldn't handle -- if only he were still in that world where nothing ever stays in its place. He sits at the table, dropping his eyes to the bowl of soup. What am I if I'm not yours?]

Thanks.