[The shuddering of shoulders makes way for the slow crescendo of laughter, high and boyish and full of surprisingly earnest mirth. More tears spring into his eyes, in part from humor but mostly from pain — a hand moves to his aching, jolting shoulder, but he continues to laugh. If you'd have seen the track marks of tears, you would have never thought they were from a terrible sadness earlier.]

Ow — ow, ow, ow...! Y-you — ha —

Ow, ow.

Such a love for stories...! You would have been banned from the oratory by the abbot, too; it's like looking into a mirror. [He leans in a little more, rubbing the edge of his palm over the corners of his eyes. Fear may be a deep ugly wound in him right now, but there's some sort of salve in just how harmless the eager rambling is, and it almost helps confirm Quentin's repaired demeanor more than the apology did.] How many books are there? Do you have them all?