Neither Sabine's head nor her gaze shifted toward his hand.
She simply stares at him straight on from right over her book.

This time without the surprise or disappointment to go with it. Not that she expected him to be any better than he had been at the execution. It's a similar strain in the same refrain. She is wary of him—both what he is (the quite odd how he is) and what she's been told—but it sits at such odds with the definitive childishness.

"Is that it? The extent of your witty insults that won't help you?"