I don't care. I'll never speak to him again, he can starve, or spend the evenings in dingy watering holes with his hound, or...

[He folds his arms, chin up, glaring at his half-finished glass.]

He is a waste, only good for a good rut, and he will not be getting that from me, either.

[His eyes are burning--how absurd! How absurd that he should be so frustrated! He has Augustine right here, and Shell, and Bi'an... Bi'an! What did Bi'an ever see in that man!]