GOOD BAG. CHEAP SHOES.

You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap
shoes? You look like a rube. A well scrubbed, hustling rube with a
little taste. Good nutrition’s given you some length of bone, but you’re
not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you? And that accent you’ve tried so desperately to shed: pure West
Virginia. What is your father, dear? Is he a coal miner? Does he stink
of the lamp? You know how quickly the boys found you… all those
tedious sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars… while you could
only dream of getting out… getting anywhere… getting all the way to
the FBI.