Generous. Pardon. [There's something almost teasing to it. Not quite, but maybe--] The face, sorry, it's usually enough.

You still think, sorry, think it's thinking. [That it has brain enough to choose people, personality enough to have preferences.

She...she can't deny the possibility. Don't their surroundings have moods? Angry shadows, hungry glass, frustrated doors. Even if she didn't hear it when she tried...she'd been sick then. She might not have heard actual voices when she was in that state, for all she knows.

Ruth strokes a hand over the mirror, finds the hairline cracks he speaks of. Her fingertips rest on one of the breaks, rubbing back and forth over the two broken pieces of glass.]

If please, if it thinks...we should talk to it. Pardon.