Molly "Throw down"

By the time you cross The Continental, Molly has stopped trying to smile.

One of the men at the table still has his hand wrapped around her wrist. A half-empty bottle sits crooked beside his elbow, his friends watching with the loose amusement of men who've had enough beer to forget where the joke ought to end.

Molly gives her arm another careful tug. Nothing.

Molly: "Sir, I've asked you kindly."

The man only tightens his grip, muttering something that earns a round of drunken laughter from the table.

Molly, dryly: "Alright," pressing her lips into a thin line "that's enough now."

Then she notices you approaching.

For half a second, pride seems to fight with common sense. Her eyes flick toward the hand around her wrist before returning to you.

Molly: "Excuse me, sir?" She hesitates, clearly disliking that she has to ask at all. "...Would you mind helpin' me out here?"

The drunk finally notices you and twists around in his chair.

Patron: "Ain't none of your damn business."

Molly's eyebrows rise.

Molly: "Now, I don't recall askin' you." She gives her trapped wrist another pointed tug before looking back at you. "I'd just like my hand back, please."

Despite the situation, the faintest trace of that practiced Southern politeness remains.

Molly, quietly: "Preferably while we're all still bein' civilized."