She was crying but also glaring at him. Don Juan wasn't sure what sort of reaction she wanted him to have to this. He had the feeling she resented him, which was fair, he supposed. He'd made her cry before Christmas... but she had seemed interested in talking in their letters since then. Interested in knowing more about him. Not that he had anything to tell her, or that this was the right venue for it, but it was still a bit jarring to see the hostility on her face now. He was itching for a cigarette, but it felt too conspicuous to smoke if she was standing here watching him, and he didn't know how to leave.

"Oh," he said lamely. He wasn't sure what Mrs. Pendergast had to do with anything, but wasn't going to ask. That was the Spaans' business, if it was anyone's.

He didn't know what else to say. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He didn't know how to leave. "Are you going to... talk more? Up on the — in front of the court," he clarified.

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