[ Fortunately for Claude she does look up just at the moment that he shrugs. Hilda knew so much about Claude; each of his looks, his laughs, the way he sidestepped and danced around truths (some would call it lying, but Hilda called it Claude playing hard to get unless he was being prescriptive about it). It's how she knows that that particular shrug isn't directed at her question and there's no dismissive quality to it. This is him trying to lighten the gloomy mood that had been brought on by her. There's suddenly a strange duality of guilt clawing at her chest at the same time that a hint of gratefulness sparks overcomes her for him falling back onto what they knew.
She chides herself for being so silly, for letting herself fall down the slippery slope of bad things. How selfish of her to ruin the precursor to a date that, even though it was just a date born from a bet, still might mean something to both of the men going on it. Claude's goad, however gentle and completely untrue as far as she's concerned, lands because she lets it land. He's lucky that the plait is starting to look good from the font and she doesn't want to risk whirling around to punch him in the gut or tug at his cheek in retaliation. Instead she settles for a well practiced gasp. ]
I do not snore! [ The act continues with a firm crossing of her arms because she thinks, if she can continue to fake it like this then she'll eventually be okay. That's how that worked, right? There's no heat to her protests, just the usual air of, "How dare you insinuate that I'm not a delicate flower." ] I think you're just mistaking my snoring for your snoring. And don't get me started on the drool, Claude.
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She chides herself for being so silly, for letting herself fall down the slippery slope of bad things. How selfish of her to ruin the precursor to a date that, even though it was just a date born from a bet, still might mean something to both of the men going on it. Claude's goad, however gentle and completely untrue as far as she's concerned, lands because she lets it land. He's lucky that the plait is starting to look good from the font and she doesn't want to risk whirling around to punch him in the gut or tug at his cheek in retaliation. Instead she settles for a well practiced gasp. ]
I do not snore! [ The act continues with a firm crossing of her arms because she thinks, if she can continue to fake it like this then she'll eventually be okay. That's how that worked, right? There's no heat to her protests, just the usual air of, "How dare you insinuate that I'm not a delicate flower." ] I think you're just mistaking my snoring for your snoring. And don't get me started on the drool, Claude.