She got this instead.
As cutpurses in his good queen's day were branded and false coiners clipped of their ears to noise their shame, there are times when Will has considered suggesting that Kit have tattooed somewhere memorable about his person the legend SOMEONE IS WRONG ON THE INTERNET, but he knows it to be a practice of sufficient provocation it must appeal to that same Marley who praised Lucan before Vergil and once called the presbyter John Christ's bedmate, and then he would have to look at it every night. He has written out instead in his cleanest hand DON'T FEED THE TROLLS and fastened up the paper, like a latter-day Luther, with the small brass tacks that glint like his fellow's hair, and observes Marlowe ignore it as studiously, with the same straight-backed self-assurance as looks out of the portrait he swears he did not sit for, except that Will has seen him take the identical stance in arguments, which he loses. He types badly, with quill-callused fingers; he appears at times to be giving his notebook the Agincourt salute. "This cannot go on, Kit—" Will hears himself like a fretting prompter, the players recalcitrant and the papers all foul, though he has as much temper at these small hours of the night as Kit has left coffee in his cup. "Thou'lt come to another reckoning—not greater than Deptford's, I grant thee, but neither so swiftly dispatched. Come to bed, mad Kit. It will not end. What profit in it, if Faustus scape Hell's fire to be anatomized upon a pin?" But though he has seen him stage-manage the passions of others with little more than a tousling look and the dare of a word or two, the ironical tempter of scholars and kings (and not a little conscious of the part), he never has seen Christofer Marlow of Canterbury and the Admiral's Men stand down from a fight, not with swords in Shoreditch or Cambridge scoffing, and he has besides a green curiosity for the by-trees of foolery that he cannot stomach any longer to plash or prune himself: the rumors so subterranean they have bottomed out of earth, the secret chains of inheritance with no blood in them, the castles of ramshackle air. By the screen's corpse-casting fox-glim, Marlowe has a ghastlier look than Mephistophilis, but he sounds as tirelessly sardonic: "Throat-cut in Southwark, Will. And by thy hand, over a matter of authoring. God's light, if I read another line, I shall have conceived of Jonson and fathered bastards on Tom Nashe."—"And murdered farting Oxford, Kit, I know. Have done, for pity," and Kit with his intelligencer's wryness sighs. "They are still wrong, Will, whether I come to bed or no." But he must laugh when he does, because Will is laughing, laying aside his book, a small neat-bearded man, bright-earringed, with nothing much else of the portrait about him: "Ay, Kit. Tomorrow. Thou dost know, they'll not have gotten it then. Nor ever this."
And now I must go to a rehearsal and make like a responsible adult.