The Meaning Of It All (Monty)

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on August 31st, 2012, 9:48 pm

"Oy, I DID says what ya said!" Tock protested, throwing her arms up in the air. She wasn't aware of the difference. Tock's mind worked differently than most. She didn't think about the individual steps along the way, so much as she saw the end result. And just as a math problem could reach the same result whether you added before you subtracted, or vice versa, she tended to see words as just tools that reached to an end result. If she got her message across, it shouldn't MATTER what order she put the words in.

But when Monty repeated the phrase using the exact same words, it started to sink in that it was part of the importance of sounding smart. She muttered a string of curses, including a few choice ones in Isur she'd picked up during her apprenticeship at the Defiled Blade in Ravok. This whole experience was frustrating, and they hasn't even GOTTEN to the party yet! Monty was asking her to use words she simply never used, like 'good evening,' or 'welcoming.'

She took a breath, rubbed her hands across her face, and tried again, "Good ev-en-ing, thank yous fer wel-ca-ming me ta yer home..."

She thought she sounded like an idiot.

Then he threw another one at her. Tock had likely never used the word 'delightful' in her entire life. Making a face of concentration, she repeated, "Dinner were deligh'ful... g'night." She looked at him with apprehension, holding her breath. As far as SHE could tell, she'd repeated exactly what he'd said, word for word. But somehow she doubted she'd quote earned his approval yet...

by **Montaine** on September 2nd, 2012, 1:29 pm

It was better, certainly. Although the strained look of concentration that graced her face as she struggled over the pronunciation of his words wasn’t precisely what most would have described as ladylike. Montaine just barely managed to stop himself from chuckling at the way she screwed up her face, but his desire to prolong his existence won out and he kept his placid countenance. This was to be the garrulous gadgeteer’s first formal dinner, of which he was aware, and such things were never easy. He only prayed that hers would go somewhat better than his own. He had been invited to dine with the esteemed Foglehorns in an incredibly ritzy part of town and ended up yelling at them and storming out.

Tock was not aware of this story. Monty would not be telling Tock this story.

‘Alrigh’, better, much better. All the right words in all the right places, you keep practisin’ that up to the dinner an’ we should be able to get you through the doors without too much trouble. Now, the next lesson, an’ this might be the mos’ important one, is courtesy,’ Monty said, hoping beyond hope that she didn’t know what the word meant, and if she did what it suggested about his opinion of her. He didn’t see it as a bad quality, but Tock could hardly be described as courteous. She was, in fact, potentially the single most discourteous individual he had ever met.

‘Speakin’ proper’s useless ‘less you talk ‘n’ act the right way. No swearin’, for instance. Pecthin’ nightmare, but there you go. Ain’t seen as polite in that sort o’ company. That means no petches, no shykes, no vagiks, bludgers, bastards, venhrehks, jakris, heliocs, whores, azos, or arseholes,’ Montaine sniffed as he finished the list of all the swearwords that he had accumulated over the years that he could think of, ‘Not even curses to the gods, ‘less they do it first. An’ don’t insult them,’ he’d almost forget to mention that last one, but given his student it was better to be safe than sorry, ‘Now what are you doin’ for clothes?’

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on September 2nd, 2012, 3:33 pm

'All the right words in all the right places,' was such a foreign concept to Tock that she had trouble wrapping her head around it. Genius or not, words just weren't her thing. She greatly preferred actions, whether it be expressing herself through her creations or expressing herself through her fists.

Which is probably why her eyes narrowed when he suddenly brought up courtesy. If anyone else besides Monty said something like that to her, she'd likely have expressed herself right then and there. And no swearing!? She wasn't sure she had that kind of self control.

She cursed and muttered under her breath for a few moments, perhaps getting it out of her system. Then he asked about clothes. She frowned, and scratched her fingers through her greasy hair. "Well," she muttered, "I done gots 'at dress I never wore fer what when I were done gonna spread my legs fer ya know who..." This was a rather sore subject, that she generally refused to bring up, though suffice to say the dress had never seen its intended use. "But Bossman says what 'at ain't fancy 'nough..." She belatedly realized she should probably still be talking poshy-like, to practice.

"I ain't figgers how it makes no diff-er-ence what how I dress, though..." Her hands wrung the hem of her dirty shirt. "I mean, I's can been courteous-like all ev-en-ing whether she's a fancy silk dress o' one what fer hik-ing up ta fer wel-com-ing a man 'tween my legs..." Since she wasn't allowed to say 'petching,' she figured that was the proper-like way to talk about it.

In a low voice she added, "But I done guess I what gotta buy sommat new..."

by **Montaine** on September 3rd, 2012, 7:30 pm

‘Hey, we’ve all got to make sacrifices. Even the snobs up the avenue, though theirs is generally less monet’ry an’ more moral. These people don’ want to get to know you, they just want to think you’re respect’ble, an’ while their idea of respect’ble ain’t hardly our idea, we’re playin’ their game. An’ fancy lookin’ is all part of fancy bein’, that’s why the old man made me buy them petchin’ corsets of waistcoats. ‘Cause these-’ Monty said, patting at his dirty, ragged work linens, ‘These ain’t fit for fancy halls an’ fancy balls an’ fancy women in fancy shawls. They don’t like to see it, an’ if they don’t like to see you they ain’t hardly going to hire you are they?’

‘They can afford what they want when they want,’ Monty said, shaking his head with furrowed brows, ‘An’ if they’s stupid enough to buy from us just ‘cause we’re talki’n fancy and wearin’ fancy then more fool them. We know we can do the work, might as well take their money for it, even if they can’t appreciate the quality of what they’re gettin’,’

Montaine didn’t tend to think of himself as greedy, but he had his needs and they weren’t all cheap. The food he ate was basic, the drinks he bought were cheap, the room he rented was small and all in all his expenses were relatively minor, but his future was still waiting. He worked glass for the love of it, and he wanted to get better. He needed to get better, much better. He needed to go out into the world and find those who were better than him and get them to teach him and improves his skills until there was no one left to teach him. Then, finally then, he could perhaps, just maybe, do justice to the glass, and fulfil his childhood dream of exploring the world whilst he was at it.

But boats weren’t cheap. Crews weren’t cheap.

And rich people were idiots.

‘Come on then, let’s go to West Street,’

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on September 3rd, 2012, 8:49 pm

Tock just grumbled while Monty laid everything out all logical-like. She hated to admit it, but the things he said made sense. Tock didn't WANT anything to do with the poshies, and she didn't want to feel like she needed them in any way. But Monty was right... they had the money, and if she wanted the life she desired, if she wanted to build her magic city, she needed resources. Resources the rich folk could get her. But if she wanted anything from them, she had to play by their rules.

Though she did rather like the idea that they could fool the rich idiots into giving them what they wanted.

"Awright, fine," she muttered, turning and stalking down the road. All too soon they found themselves looking quite out of place on West Street, and getting all the expected looks from the passerby. Tock looked around, uncertain where to go. There weren't all that many clothing shops, and the ones she HAD been to before, she hadn't been treated all that well. While she was staring, indecisively, down the street, she suddenly heard a voice calling out to her.

"Miss Tock? Miss Tock! Oh, I've been hoping you'd stop by. Come, come! We've barely enough time left!"

Tock stared in shock at the woman approaching her, then looked around to see if there was somehow another 'Tock' she could be talking to. Before she knew what was going on, Yvette Mercer, owner and proprietor of Yvette's Dresses for All Occasions!, was pulling her by her elbow towards her shop, chattering on the while.

Tock cast a confused glance back at Monty as Yvette continued, "Why, I've been looking forward to seeing you again, ever since I heard the work you did for The Saville. Now I've given this a lot of thought, and I really do think that a green dress would compliment your... hair," she lifted a strand of Tock's greasy mop between two fingers, trying her hardest to disguise her disgust. "Nothing too modest, of course. One must show the proper display of one's assets in order to close a deal, yes? Yes, trust me, my dear, I'm the expert!"

Tock's eyes were wide with confusion, and she looked back at Monty in quickly rising panic. "Monty...!" she called back to him, as Yvette dragged her into the shop. She didn't even understand how the woman had been expecting her! Though the shop owner's continued rambling soon put the pieces into place.

"Yes, yes, and Mr. Marshall's wife is wearing a deep blue," she continued as she led Tock towards the fitting room, Tock staring wide-eyed and still struggling to catch up. "It would hardly do to clash with the hostess's garb, so I think a deeper, forest-green will compliment well. Oh, but for the life of me I haven't been able to find out who your escort for the evening shall be..." she glanced back at Monty with a frown of doubt. Yvette kept her ear on all the gossip going on in the city, so she had no doubt heard about a certain young Mister Callay, and thus wasn't expecting Monty to be Tock's 'date' for the dinner tonight. "But we must make sure he matches, yes, indeed..."

Tock looked at Monty with pleading eyes, uncertain what to do. The last time she'd been here, when Yvette started treating Monty different just because of his developing connections, Tock had lost her temper and simply yelled at the woman (much to Monty's delight at the time). But now, Tock was so off balance, between her stress about the dinner, the rather poorly absorbed grammar lessons, and the way Yvette seemed to be ten steps ahead of her, that she just didn't know what to do.

by **Montaine** on September 6th, 2012, 12:48 am

Montaine, however, knew precisely what to do, and he hated himself for that. Clearly he had gleaned more from the old man’s subliminal lessons that he had cared admit to himself. Calbert’s practised ability to schmooze the wealthy and neutralise potential faux pas was remarkable, but distasteful and morally abhorrent. It required separating oneself from humanity briefly and observing the people as pieces, as variables. Right now, Tock was an unstable link in the chain. Judging by her nervous expression she was liable to panic, and when the garrulous gadgeteer panicked, bad things happened. The glassworker swept into action.

‘I’ll be attending Tock tonight,’ he said, unable to bring himself to attach the socially expected honorific to her name, ‘I’ve got some green things, but if you could hunt something flattering out for the lady, we would be most grateful,’ he smiled. Yvette raised an eyebrow as he confirmed that he was indeed going with the young woman, but said nothing. She nodded and as she moved into the shop to relay orders to her assisting staff, Monty caught her shoulder and leaned in.

‘Nothing too tight, we can sacrifice fashion for comfort tonight,’

The tailor grumbled but assented, and set about finding the perfect outfit. The fashion was still for unconscionably restrictive clothing at the moment, but Tock undoubtedly had enough on her plate as it was without worrying about being able to breathe throughout dinner. Monty then turned to the gadgeteer, still antsy as ever, and moved to diffuse the next potential issue.

‘Don’ worry Tock, this’ll be easy as anythin’. In fact, this’ll be perfect practice. Mercer’s a ponce, but she’s a servin’ ponce. She’s trained to do all the difficult parts of this so that her poncy customers don’ have to. Jus’ let her find the dress and ignore what she says unless it’s a direct question, alright? An’ relax, take your time and remember’ he whispered to her, ‘Be polite, pronounce and please, try not to tell her to petch off, hard as it may be,’

‘Alright, Miss Tock, Mister Redsun,’ Yvette said from behind Monty’s back, causing him to jump, ‘We have a couple of options that we think are more than suitable for the requirements of your esteemed selves for this evening’s soirée. The first is this fine silk gown in deep forest green, the alabaster equivalent of which’s design is said to be all the rage in Mura this time of year,’ she held out a hand to a girl to her right, who came forward with the thing draped over her arms and proffered it to Tock expectantly. All eyes turned to the garrulous gadgeteer.

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on September 6th, 2012, 3:04 am

Tock ground her teeth at the idea of not telling Yvette to petch off, since the more time she spent in the dress shop, the more she felt the irritation building inside of her. She tried her best to swallow it down, however, knowing that Monty was right. If she couldn't tolerate Yvette's brown-nosing, then she'd never be able to handle the dinner.

When the dress was brought out, her eyes softened a bit. It was rather beautiful. She'd never worn something like that in her life. She reached out to touch the soft fabric, but with one look at her filthy hands, the assistant, Natalie, yanked it back.

"Don't touch it with your filthy hands," the girl snapped, looking down at Tock like she was better than her.

"Oy, why you--!" Tock took a step forward, fists clenched, wondering ever so briefly what the 'proper etiquette' was for smacking a bitch upside the head. Surely poshies needed to hit each other from time to time.

Yvette, however, stepped in with a disarming smile, knowing far better than her assistant how to balance between meeting a customer's needs and guiding a customer for her own needs. "What she means," she said, giving Tock a look of faux politeness that didn't fool her one bit, "is before you get dressed, we must tend to your other needs. Hair, nails, cosmetics..." Tock's face paled; she hadn't realized she was also going to have to get a makeover.

"But fear not!" Yvette added, taking Tock by the elbow and guiding her towards the back. "A customer's needs is our first priority! Come, come! We'll have you bathed and made up in time for this evening's revelries..."

Tock grabbed Monty's shirt, dragging him along as she was led into the back. Uncertain what she should do or say, but Monty had told her ti be polite and ignore what the woman said... unless it was a direct question. Yet Yvette hadn't asked her a direct question. In fact, she wasn't asking anything at all, and thus not giving Tock a chance to say 'No.'

A few moments later they were led into a bathing room, which had a vanity along the wall covered in cosmetics, accessories, wigs, combs, brushes, and other assorted things that Tock never, ever used. Natalie began preparing a bath, placing a tray of hot coals underneath the copper tub to heat the water, and adding in some sort of oils and salts that smelled rather nice. Without modesty or hesitation, ever the professional, Yvette moved to help Tock with the buttons of her shirt. "I can assure you," she said as she undid the buttons, "you've never experienced a proper spa treatment until you've had one at 'Yvette's!'" Tock stared at the woman's hands in shock, her face turning red. She was vaguely aware that rich ladies often had servants help them in bathing, but it wasn't the sort of thing she'd ever done. She wasn't at all a modest person, and frankly she didn't give a damn if she had to change clothes in front of the seamstress, or anything like that. But not caring one bit if the woman saw her naked was quite different than standing there and letting the woman undress her.

Not even trying to hide her scowl, Natalie reached forward to help, going for Tock's tool belt. Her hand was slapped away, not by Tock, who was restraining herself (with GREAT difficulty), but by Handy, who didn't understand what was going on here at all. She stepped back, holding her hand and staring at the Automaton like it was something wild and dangerous. From Tock's belt, he made a lewd gesture at the assistant, which just made her fume even more.

Meanwhile Tock hadn't made a sound, literally biting her tongue in order to follow Monty's suggestion that she keep quiet. When Yvette nearly had the shirt unbuttoned, she glanced at Monty with a look that was clearly meant to dismiss him from the room, clearing her throat authoritatively. But when she realized Monty might leave her alone with these women, Tock's eyes went wide, and she cast him a pleading gaze, giving a small but desperate shake of her head, trying to tell him not to go.

She didn't care if Monty saw her naked either. Not only was he family, but she knew he wouldn't be 'interested' in what he saw anyway. And she was desperate for his support right now, since if he left she'd be alone with the jackals...

by **Montaine** on September 7th, 2012, 10:04 pm

The second of the tailor’s assistants, possessing, as he did, male genitalia, passed the glassworker by and left the room. Dressing room etiquette dictated that a man should not be present when a lady undresses. This wasn’t just true for high society but high, low and all those in between. The concept was understandable. One’s naked body was a deeply private, deeply personal affair that wasn’t to be shared lightly. However, Montaine’s knowledge of clothing unclothing protocols stretched little further than don’t look at people while they’re changing but he had a niggling suspicion that there was more to it when it came to a classier sort of citizen. There so often was.

Where he had grown up, Montaine had been taught that you speak politely to those older than you, calling them either Sir or Ma’am. In Calbert’s care, Montaine had learned that in high society each and every person had a specific title or honorific by which you were to refer to them. Gods forbid if you addressed the Dean of Scholars as a lowly professor, and it would be a dreadful faux pas to refer to the Lord of the Council as a Lady, regardless of her gender. Where he had grown up, Montaine had been taught that on special occasions you dressed in your best clothes, though admittedly there hadn’t been all that much choice and generally in his neck of the woods it was the rule that on special occasions you dressed in your other clothes. In Calbert’s care, Montaine had learned that in high society one’s physical appearance was paramount to how others saw you. The wrong shade of green, the wrong shape of button, and you could be a social pariah.

Monty cringed slightly as he realised he had remembered all of the old man’s tedious talk of etiquette. He was slightly suspicious that all of the memory space that would have been given over to remembering all the embarrassing things he had done while drunk out of his skull was instead full of the old man’s posturing on posture. Yvette coughed.

Alas the Calbert’s lessons had never covered this particular situation. Perhaps the old man had doubted the likelihood of Monty ever being in the presence of an undressing woman; perhaps they simply hadn’t reached that stage of his education. Needless to say, the glassworker knew nothing of the social requirements and was loathe to abandon his charge, if only for fear that Yvette and her girl wouldn’t make it out alive. Instead of leaving, he turned around and folded his arms.

The tailor let out an exasperated sigh and returned to Tock, but spoke to Monty over her shoulder, ‘And what will you be wearing this evening, Mister Redsun? I cannot have my fine dresses spoken badly of because they were accompanied by something-’ she paused for the briefest second, ‘slapdash,’

‘I’ve got my jacket,' he said, patting his beloved coat, 'and a waistcoat that’s a little darker’n the dress you picked out. Not much though, it’ll be fine,’

‘And what else? I presume you are not contemplating attending in just a jacket and waistcoat?’

Yvette’s first assistant restrained a splutter.

Monty scowled and mouthed a series of swearwords to the far wall before replying, ‘I’ve got trousers and some white shirts. What does it matter? I’m just a tagalong,’

Yvette paused her activities and let out the tiniest of squeaks, her right eyebrow twitching dangerously, ‘White shirts? White shirts?’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘I-I don’t think so, Mister Redsun. I shall be making your…acquaintance radiant, and we can’t have you detracting from her beauty with your-’ she exhaled sharply through her nose, ‘white shirt. CLARENCE!’

At her shriek, her second assistant poke his head through the door to the main shop floor, a hand over his eyes, ‘You called, Ms Mercer?’

The tailor crossed to a hefty chest behind her and dug a clunky key from her pocket. Unlocking the container she sifted through the contents and retrieved a hefty sized pouch and tossed it over to the man. In his self imposed blindness he found himself hit in the stomach by the money purse and winded. Not waiting for him to recover, Yvette relocked the chest and issued orders.

‘Run along across the street to the Gadderjacks’ and fetch the young man a black shirt, one of Bon’s new striped atrocities, and a cravat, black from Albert’s, quick quick!’

Clarence picked up the pouch, gave Monty the briefest of once-overs to gauge his size and bolt from the shop.

‘Now dear,’ Yvette said, placing her hands on Tock’s shoulders and smiling at her in the mirror, ‘Tell me, just how keen are you on your hair as it is?’

OOCBecause I'm dangerously anally retentive, I have taken the opportunity to procure the final accoutrements necessary for Monty to possess, in character, all of the clothes Mister Whishaw is wearing in my avatar, hope you don't mind. I'll have Yvette make him reimburse her when we pay.

by **Minerva Agatha Zipporah** on September 8th, 2012, 12:47 am

OOCOh my... And now Tock gets to get her hair done, too... ^.^

Tock grinned when the woman started in on Monty, too. Normally, she would flip out on her for talking to Monty that way, but he had told her not to do any such thing. Therefore, if SHE had to suffer, then he could be forced to endure the exact same treatment.

Before she knew it she was stripped and led into the tub. The water felt pleasantly tingly, and she wondered just what the trick behind those oils and such was.

As she was asked about her hair, and Natalie doused said hair in a mixture of something that smelled like flowers, Tock frowned and said, "I ain't give a pe--... I mean, I ain't care whatcha does wit' 'er... Jus' dun take the color out..." Yvette frowned at this restriction, but this was one point about which Tock would put her foot down.

Over the next couple of hours, Tock was poked, prodded, scrubbed, rinsed, exfoliated, and generally subjected to an endless torture that she NEVER wanted to repeat! No amount of beauty was worth all this pain and suffering!

The dirt was cleaned from under her nails, which were then painted to match her new dress. Since her hair was too short to do much with, the jackals settled on curling it into little ringlets that framed her face, which itself was subjected to a series of treatments. First some sort of gunk was spread across her face during the bath, then it was peeled off so her skin could be scrubbed. Then she was removed from the tub and wrapped in a robe, while her cheeks were treated with rouge, her lips were painted, and her eyes were colored, until in the end she didn't recognize her reflection in the mirror.

They tried to sell her on a pair of dainty lady's slippers, but the flimsy things looked sure to rip if she wore them outdoors. After a fair bit of negotiating, she managed to settle on a pair of green lady's heeled boots. They still seemed too fragile to work in, but she could live with them.

She flat out refused any of the frilly, lacy undergarments they offered her, protesting quite loudly that no one was going to SEE them, so her old cotton panties would do just fine thank you very much.

The only jewelry she wore was her color-changing pendant, which lay nestled in her cleavage (which was quite exposed in the dress, making her fear she might just fall out of it). When she was finally ready to model the final ensemble, the mood stone was showing the same shade of pink as the blush on her cheeks.

At the end of it all, she stood before Monty, hair curled, face made up, fingers with painted nails plucking at the unfamiliar skirts. She felt quite the fool, and dreaded the thought of any of her coworkers seeing her like this. Especially James.

She looked up at Monty and asked in a small voice, "Whaddya think?"

Ledger :

by **Montaine** on September 9th, 2012, 9:15 pm

Once the makeover was underway, Montaine’s usefulness to the procedure diminished to standing at one side staring vacantly at the wall. Tock seemed to be getting along fine enough under the occasionally aggressive ministrations of the dressmaker and her girl, though the glassworker did want to go over and berate her forgetting her pronunciations every now and again. He didn’t, however, for fear of accidentally catching a glimpse of glistening gadgeteer and parts of a woman’s body hitherto unknown to the eyes of the young man.

He instead alternated between making scrupulous plans as how to ensure the success of the dinner and mentally self-flagellating for submitting to Calbert’s efforts to remould him. It was some small relief that he knew he was only doing to protect the reputation and dignity of his friend. The evening must have been incredibly important. He presumed that the garrulous gadgeteer’s boss was aware of her predilection for antisocial behaviour. Anyone who actually knew the girl wouldn’t put her in a situation like this unless it was utterly unavoidable.

Eventually he heard the tell tale splash of his companion leaving the bath and yawned quietly to himself. How long did it take to buy a dress? He was certain it wouldn’t take him nearly as long to get ready. Slip out of clothes, slip into clothes, no problem. There was a muffled shout from the shop floor that made Yvette pause. It was Clarence, returned from his errands, not a customer, and he was calling after Monty.

The glassworker turned round and caught a flash of flesh from a place he really rather wished he hadn’t, flinched and covered his eyes, ‘I’ll just be out front, okay?’

Once had some sort of assent he blindly reached out for the doorknob and made his way back to the shop. The tailor’s assistant was waiting with a shirt folded tightly over one arm and a strip of black fabric resting over it. He held it out.

‘That is thirteen all told, sir, ten for the shirt and three for the cravat. Do try them on,’

Monty took the items with uncertainty. He raised an eyebrow at the man and removed his jacket. He paused for a while before moving to unbutton his shirt when Clarence stopped him with a hand on his arm and an exasperated sigh.

‘Sir, please, if I may?’

Monty nodded, out of bewilderment more than any sort of trust in the man. The tailor’s assistant proceeded to take the new, black shirt and unbutton it, then walked around the glassworker and helped him into it, over his linens. He then moved back round front and buttoned it most of the way up.

Then he took the cravat.

Now Monty was thankful, because he didn’t even know what a cravat was. If he had had to hazard a guess by the look of the thing, perhaps a weird, rather large handkerchief? Clarence moved in uncomfortably close and wrapped the material round his neck, pushing the collar of his linen shirt up and squeezing it underneath. He quickly tied it and adjusted the rest of Monty’s attire around it, struggling to get the worn out old collar of his linens to stand of its own accord. Montaine walked to the mirror.

The shirt was as terribly tight fitting as all the clothes he had purchased on West Street, and bore a series of thin white stripes vertically across its breadth. It was difficult to move his head, with his chin sitting on the top of the ridiculous piece of neckwear, but he to admit that altogether his attire didn’t look too bad. It felt uncomfortable as shyke, but comfort wasn’t their purpose. Clarence appeared from behind and helped him put on his jacket. The coat was a little battered by age, but it was beloved and didn’t hurt the ensemble.

Monty’s eyes flicked towards the door to the back rooms. He was loathe to return to his post, vigilantly watching the wall, and Tock seemed to be doing fine. He took a seat in the great leather couch that stood beside a classy arrangement of hideously expensive shoes and waited. As it was, she didn’t take long and emerged from the back room in a cloud of perfumes. She was asking his opinion on her appearance again.

‘Looks-’ he nodded slowly and sucked his teeth, ‘good, looks good. You look like a real classy lady. You know, I think we could just about pull this off,’

Ledger :