Sybil Crawley

“Branson.” Combeferre had met a number of people in the last wild twenty-four hours, and had forgotten many of their names as swiftly as he had been told them. But Tom Branson had stuck, if only because he had seen in the man a kindred spirit of sorts. He had even wondered if he might seek the man out, cultivate at least one friendship in this strange world that seemed right and familiar. “I- I think I met him,” he said after an uncomfortable silence.