He sat at his old, carved wooden desk, a small elderly Hobbit snuggled in amongst bone-easing cushions. Pen in hand, he had been scribbling away in his neatest manner, carefully dipping his feathered pen (his father's, handed down to him,) in the ink pot, and blotted it so that it would not drip. He was a careful sort of Hobbit. He liked his home to be tidy, but lived in.
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being at blame
