The snarling end of the cane remains at it is, apparently perfectly comfortable laid there against her ribs in order to preserve that separation of the few inches between them on the bench. It doesn't waver; his wrist remains locked where it's turned—a habitual precaution against proximity, apparently, and one which seems to have little bearing on the impolitely arch tenor of his reply:

"Your condolences?" It's a little biting, as if he might laugh and the sound would be the unpleasant kind of humor. The eye he turns on her is very dark, shaded so thoroughly by the heavy edge of his brow and the tilt of his head away from the windows across the vestibule and the dreary weather outside of them so as to appear nearly black.

"My, whatever outpost you crawled out of must be very far removed from the civilized world if that's how you feel about it."

(Is, strictly speaking, no answer at all to her question.)