“Fifteen ten,” said your sister Lyctor, as soon as she noticed you.

      You said, “Eight thirty-four,” and she said, “My God! Hark at the creature. Eight thirty-four … and such a dreadful pity that it doesn’t even matter.”

      She was in a filthy mood, if she was wearing that thing, with her arm exposed. You were not in the best frame of mind yourself.

      “Let us interrogate,” you said. “Does it not matter because despite cutting three whole minutes off your previous time you could never hope to challenge me in this arena, or does it not matter because I’m going to die to Number Seven?”

Harrow the Ninth - Act Two, Chapter Thirteen