[ He bristles. Whether he likes the philosophy he's spouting or not, he can't argue with the logic in it. Nor can he imagine that the Company disagrees. The Westerlyns--the peasants--are a dime a dozen to the nobility. Fodder for their cannons. There will always be more of them to exploit, to blame, to use. He knows that for a fact, and all too well, besides.
no subject
He looks upon her water work with open disgust. ]
You don't know anything about me.
[ He gestures to her bubbles, sneering. ]
Keep back.