[He doesn't respond, either positively or negatively-- but she can hear the creak of wood as he slowly relaxes his grip, and so she keeps speaking.]

At least you're not Robert. He used to carry on like a child when he'd get injured. Not seriously, mind you-- he'd work with me quite well when he was seriously injured. But a tiny stubbed toe and you'd think no one had ever endured such an injury. And illness-- a cold and he'd be utterly useless. Pathetic, really, but he was somehow endearing at the same time--

[She goes on and on, babbling about one of the few things she can talk about for hours. At the same time, she jerks her hand back with a gasp. Tweezers, blade and blood all come rushing out in a gory mess, but it hardly matters-- thank god, they got through this without her being killed.]