Re: Edges of Ballroom
Jennifer continued to scowl despite Hockney's apparent obliviousness to her surrounding situation. This was not a place for the toaster to even think of inhabiting--disregarding the obvious fact that she held more intelligence then ninety-five percent of the ridiculous women here--and especially unescorted.
And dressed like that. Shaking her head of the outrage, she strode up to Hockney's personal space, leaning over to whisper hotly in her ear, "What are you doing here?" What she really meant to ask was, What band of morons did this to you so I can kill them and throw their bodies into the river?
Closer in proximity without being completely disrespectful, the spectacle failed to make her any less horrified. The jewels, the tight, clinging dress, the dowdy make-up. Daryl Hockney was a lot of things, most of them infuriating in some fashion, but she sure as hell wasn't anyone's doll.