Daisy half-shrugs; a roll of her shoulders that conveys that she doesn't care enough not to care. She puffs on the Marlboro, complains about the mythical fiberglass in their filters, complains about it being Thursday and her being Monday, complains about Keene stacking the deck so he always winds up as the Sabbath, and exhales. By the time she finishes her protracted rant -- during which you're not allowed a word in edgewise -- she's mostly finished with her cigarette.