A. "Okay, Margo," Carla whispered softly. "You don't have to demean me." Her hand gently caressed Margo's shirt collar, absently straightening out a wrinkled lapel, as she had so many times before. Margo smiled inwardly; there would be time enough to demean Carla later.
B. "Okay, Margo," Carla whispered coldly. "You don't have to demean me." She had moved unnervingly close; close enough for Margo to see the anger flash in her eyes. Carla's hand hovered just above her shoulder. Suddenly she felt a strange tightening in her throat. The realization hit her like a ton of squiggle art: Carla was the Sith Lord.