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With a soft click , her spine straightened three degrees. Her gloved fingers, frozen mid-gesture over an invisible tea tray, twitched once and then held.
Upon it stood Her .
She was perfect. Her skin was high-gloss latex, the color of cream. Her joints were visible—not crude bolts, but elegant brass swivels, oiled and silent. Her eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking, painted with a permanent look of serene surprise. Her lips were parted just so, sealed in a perfect "O" around a breathing tube that connected to a tiny, silent bellows in her chest. House Of Gord Dollmaker
“Posture check,” he murmured.