John was silent for a long while, absorbing this information.

"Y'know, Raphael," he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck, "I keep thinking I've got every good reason to hate your guts, but somehow I just can't seem to do it. I think mebbe it's because you remind me a little too much of myself." He smiled wanly. The parts I don't like, mostly, but there you have it. "I know exactly how you feel, but if I knew what to do about it I wouldn't be down here right now, I expect. Just, please tell me you're not given to prophetic dreams?"