[ There are a few flowers that have been cut too short to be part of a bouquet, and Clara has rescued them from their future as compost. They're all different varieties, and she has them in a basket. Anytime she sees someone who looks like they could use a flower —and that's everyone—she tries to make a guess as to which sort of flower they'd like most.

Spotting someone innocently walking down the street, she calls out, walking closer. ]

You look like a person who'd enjoy a flower behind your ear or in your hair. I think I like this for you, whatever it's called.

[ She holds out the flower, completely serious and smiling with the full wattage of her dimples. ]