“Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re, like, a hundred and fifty. How would a Victorian woman say it?” She fluttered one hand to her heart, drawing his eye back to her impressive cleavage again, and the other to her brow. “Oh! My dear sir,” she warbled in some kind of mangled transatlantic accent. “Prithee do not trouble thyself over my lascivious needs. I am but a simple woman who seeks only the genitals of her truest love.”
