What a stupid question. From a person who has committed himself so wholly to being purposefully dense, she thinks. Is it not enough to just be guaranteed on this part? She could decline to tell him. It would be entirely fair to do so.

This too sparks hot some ember of irritation. It is a stark lack of charity; how unpleasant the shape of it is, and how bitter the tang of the air which lingers about it.

Like a locked door whose handle is being braced by a closed hand on one side, she picks her words carefully. They are all crisp edges, perfectly enunciated as if selected one by one for their sound rather than their meaning. "I am angry," she says. "At myself. For being so short tempered. And unkind. So there. You see the difficulty."