Wysteria is not sitting, but that seems to be very much by choice. It is so much easier to bustle about the desk or the office, to pull records and sort papers into differently orderly stacks if she remains standing.

Straightening from a prodigious collection of freshly written notes, Wysteria tucks her pen--somewhere behind her ear. It must disappear into the elaborate braided up do, for a moment it is there and the next it is nowhere to be seen. She helps herself to a slab of toast.

"Equal, no. But I'm afraid there is a war on, Mister Holden, and so some of us must extend ourselves beyond what is truly fair. You understand. Here, your copy."

A page with a series of predictable questions is divided from a stack of similarly scrawled sheets. She lays it before him, unearthing a pencil to go along with it as she devours the toast.

"You look much improved," comes from behind the shield of her hand. Is that insulting? Who knows. It's been said, and can hardly be taken back now.