As he passed her cell, Doctor Song was seated on her small bed, muttering what sounded like curses under her breath, though he couldn't understand a single one of them. She was scrubbing furiously at a large reddish purple stain on the skirt of the amazingly complex multilayered gown she had on.
"That'll never come out," he observed. It had been a long night and he was bored.
"Tell me about it," she agreed, stopping her work to look up at him. "And this was one of my favorites. Why does this always happen to me?"
"What did happen?" he asked. It had been a very long night.
"Napoleon. Another lousy shot."
"Doesn't look like it from here."
She sighed. "Except, of course, he wasn't actually aiming at me."