She doesn't actually gesture at him (she has her satchel, and her hands tucked into the cuffs of her coat), but there is the overwhelming sense of agitated movement nonetheless.
"You didn't...write to me, because you thought I was happy? You were a friend. And I've been out here with only one person I trusted."
She has no one now, she doesn't say. She doesn't have to. She's wearing widow black, her wedding ring on the wrong hand.
"Alex, I thought I got you killed. Trust me, a letter would have been...perfectly fine."
no subject
"Happy?"
She doesn't actually gesture at him (she has her satchel, and her hands tucked into the cuffs of her coat), but there is the overwhelming sense of agitated movement nonetheless.
"You didn't...write to me, because you thought I was happy? You were a friend. And I've been out here with only one person I trusted."
She has no one now, she doesn't say. She doesn't have to. She's wearing widow black, her wedding ring on the wrong hand.
"Alex, I thought I got you killed. Trust me, a letter would have been...perfectly fine."