Smart gal. [He tosses her a toothy grin, compensating for the reserve in hers.] I wouldn't put it past it. All bets are off in this mad house.

[His attention sticks to the garishly long stretch of her dress. How the fabric drags behind her. He thinks of his mother quite suddenly — giving him high shit for mucking up his corduroys in the slush of the Barrens. He does shuck his coat then, whipping off the gloves to stick in the pockets and tossing the affair over his shoulder like Santa's sack'o'goodies.]

Did you just wake up or something? Pardon my — well not to be rude, but tore up as the city is you can find a good tailor on most blocks. If the shit hits the fan are you good to run in those skirts?