Finch can already feel the poor people germs on him. Disgusting. He's never going on a train again if it means this will happen once he gets off it.

"I am headed home, ma'am," he answered, trying to be polite but it was so incredibly difficult, at this point.

"Me too!" she chirped, following along with her poor people germs at his shoulder.

Now if she could just get him in an alley, she could already see that suitcase! Spilling open with nothing but bank notes, bank notes, bank notes on her bed!

"What do you do for a living, sir?"

There was no getting rid of her, was there? Finch kept walking, a bit faster now, though he tried not to seem rushed or frantic. 

"Photography," he answered her question, albeit quite reluctantly. Trying to remain polite and sane was so, so difficult, now.