[She snorts lightly, canting her head to one side, an ironic smile tugging at the corners of her lips.]

You speak like there is an end limit to sarcasm.

[She polishes off the last of her supper, and, blotting her mouth with the napkin, set it aside, and, picking up her glass to take a sip, eyes silently train themselves on him.]

But--[she sets her glass down-] there's one thing that separates me from your dear Mr Bullock: I've got no better a social life than you do. Glass houses, and all that.