If the man was thinking sour thoughts of her because she was a woman, she was left blissfully unaware. It paid to be polite, folks, for she had not one unkind word to say to the reporter. In fact, she would glance toward the door, straighten her neck an lift her head up a little higher, then reach up to pat the slightly mussed quaffier at the back of her neck, and then blow a random lock of hair out of her face, obviously still fuming at the character that was Mister Long in the pants and short of brains. She was glad not to have to smell his putrid fart breath anymore.

"The pleasure is mine," she drawled, before returning her gaze to Quentin and then back to the reporter with a now, raised eyebrow. He would probably give a better answer than fart-breath for certain.