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| What's yer name? | *smiles alluringly* Emily Constance Carraway. |
| Dat what people call ya, or d'ya got a nickname? | Nickname? *sniffs* Certainly not. Emily, please, or Miss Carraway. |
| Whaddaya look like? | *smiles in a such a way that it could almost be called a smirk. She's beautiful and she knows it.* Very nice, or at least the gentlemen tell me so. I have blond hair--David Richards said it was the color of spun gold. My eyes are green--emerald green, according to Robert Norton. William Morris told me I was like a porcelain doll, fine and delicate. *smirks again* I suppose they're all correct. |
| How old are ya? | Eighteen. *smiles, thinking that she's just young enough to have a good time with men without having to worry about having to marry any of them* |
| What kind of work d'ya do? Actor, stagehand, what? | *looks offended* Work? I do not work here! *lifts chin haughtily* My father owns the theater, you fool. You'd do well to remember whom you're speaking with. |
| Got any experience at dat? An' how'd ya end up heah, anyway? | ((Emily has yet to answer this question.) |
| How 'bout tellin' us a little 'bout yerself? Ya know, what kind of personality ya got? | *smiles with false sweetness* Everyone has always said I am a lovely, pleasant, accomplished girl. My father has raised me to expect the best in life and to always look out for myself. *And she most certainly does look out for herself, first and foremost. Other people, to Emily, are merely means to her own ends. She sees men, particularly, as objects for her own amusement.* |
| Any special talents? | I can sew a fine seam, sing, play piano, and converse capably with the highest society of New York and London. *She really ought to add "manipulation", but doesn't.* |