Let’s pull all these fragments back together and see what we have. Here’s the original snippet.
He was in his midforties, I guessed. It was hard to say with someone that size. A short, dark stranger with brown eyes and a snub nose. He was wearing a three-piece suit, only the pieces all belonged to different suits like he’d gotten dressed in a hurry. His socks didn’t match either. A neat mustache crowned his upper lip and his black hair was slicked back with oil. A spotted bow tie and a flashy gold ring completed the picture. It was a weird picture.
“Do come in, Mr…” my brother began.
“Naples,” the dwarf, who already was in, said. His name might have come out of Italy, but he spoke with a South American accent. “Johnny Naples. You are Tim Diamond?”
“That’s me,” my brother lied. His real name was Herbert Timothy Simple, but he called himself Tim Diamond. He thought it suited his image. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Venice?”
Here are the examples we've been building:
She was nervous I thought, though the Obama mask covering her face made it hard to tell for sure. A small woman hunched in the chair, fidgeting with her rings and darting looks around the room. Beyond the mask, her dress sense was cheerfully mismatched, almost like she was trying to draw attention away from the mask. Each of her fingernails were painted a different colour. A red leather jacket covering an Adventure Time t-shirt and a crumpled hand-embroidered floral skirt. Socks with avocados on them and bright green Doc Martens finished the look. And that look was eccentric, to say the least.
“Would you like something to drink, Ms…” I started.
“Jane. Jane Doe,” the woman blurted. She tried to sound older, but her fidgeting hands looked like they belonged to a teenager. “I don’t really want to take off the mask, so no drink, thank you. You’re Felicity Candle? The detective?”
“That would be me,” my co-worker said, suddenly entering the room. Fliss said she loved a big arrival, but I secretly thought it was to avoid the usual crackpots our agency got, though ‘Jane’ seemed to have these qualities in droves. “How can we help, Ms… Doe?”
He was a big guy, maybe 350lbs. It was hard to say with the baggy clothes. Heavyset, with bullish shoulders and sagging eyes. He was wearing a bright orange jogger suit, like he made a New Years’ resolution to get out and do some cardio. Even in the air conditioning there were dark sweat stains under his armpits. He had a big walking stick capped with tennis balls so it didn’t scuff the floor, and he used a white hankie to mop the sweat from his brow, a chunky gold ring on his delicately extended pinky. He was big, but in a weird way also small.
“Oh, hello, Mr…” I stammered.
“D’Angelo,” the man puffed. He sounded wheezy and breathless, like he’d walked up a flight of stairs. “But you can call me Mr D’Angelo. You’re Tip Swiffly?”
“I am Mr Swiffly,” I said. Of course my voice jumped two octaves mid-sentence. Ugh, puberty. So unprofessional. I gestured towards an industrial-size tub of Skinsoft moisturiser. “Care for a seat, Mr D’Angelo?”
And below is your version, joined together.
Is there anything you want to edit? This is your last chance to make improvements before we conclude the lesson!
