Pretty got on out of there, but she didn’t have any intention of going home. “But I do, and I’m telling you to get on out of here. I don’t see how it makes a difference if I wear skirts or britches.” She gripped the sides of her skirt with both hands and kept her wings folded tightly behind her so they wouldn’t rustle and give away her frustration. Rostin,” said Pretty, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “I’d think he’d want the best driver, Mr. A respectable, put-together young man, not a girl, no matter if she’s cute as a button.” He said it matter-of-factly, almost kindly, but it still sounded like he was talking down to her. Who’d hire a girl to drive them around town? If a gentleman goes to the expense of buying a fine motor-car with the latest dragon-bone engine, he wants a real driver. “I’d never get paid back for teaching you. His bowler hat was a little too small and sat high enough that Pretty could see the sides of his bald head peeking out under the brim.
Rostin, waiting for their first driving lesson. I’m far better than Denny, and you’re letting him try!” She pointed toward the group of boys assembled behind Mr. She caught herself fiddling nervously with the end of the blonde braid hanging over her shoulder and quickly dropped her hand to her side.
She hoped he wouldn’t notice in the dim light from the gas-lamps. His big hand squashed her antennae uncomfortably. He patted Pretty on the head as if she were five. “A girl driving a motor-car?” he guffawed.
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