Lightly humming the tune that floated in through the tavern window, she took the thimble away from the inebriated Arvicoline, and put it back into her pocket. She softly whispered, "You've had enough, my friend. That 45 will set you on your lips, and that's no condition to be in with cats about..." before she returned to the vituperations at hand.

"Did you say something?" she asked, and ignoring her own advice to the vole, poured herself a large measure of the St.Emilion.

"I said that if you would continue, ma'am, I would be honored."

"Things won are done," she said as she put her chin in her hand and gave the stranger a glare that was infinitely colder than Shukov's trip to the infirmary, "joy's soul lies in the doing, and as your Condolezza so melodically intoned, the hands are the fingers of the soul. So in effect, your life's joy must rely on what your fingers are doing...Correct? Well then, Mr. Mix, what is it, exactly, that your fingers are doing? Just like she said," nodding towards Condolezza and then taking a long drink from her glass, "it makes you think."