"There you are," Jaundyce says, eyes narrowing. There is a bilious unsteadiness to his movements and, you note, a spatter of wine across his shirt. "There you are, Fontybelle…."
He advances. The crowd shuffles away from you; you take a step back as well, hands raised.
"Sir, my name is not Fontybelle."
Jaundyce spits on the ground and continues to advance.
"You are the man Fontybelle," he says.