The moment he takes her hand up, Wysteria's nose wrinkles. For she knows instinctively what will follow, and she has a great distaste for the thing Ellis is bound to imply with his gentle touch of fingers and gentler voice and his careful attention on her. It's all very irritating. Not him, not Ellis specifically. But the circumstances— what a dreadful annoyance, and she supposes that it's only fair to be angry with Mister Dickerson now when she has otherwise not been even when he sometimes seemed to wish her to be.

Her nose remains wrinkled. Wysteria frowns down at the contents of the sack, aware of some flush of annoyance or directionless irritability crawling up the back of her neck. Making her ears faintly warm. Invading beyond her hairline.

Yes, yes. Gentle hand, gentle voice. She gets the point, Mister Ellis.

"How frustrating," is a very broad, incredibly bland statement for the whole sensation.