Joy shuts her mouth with a hard enamel crash, glaring up at the interloper with immediate, undifferentiated resentment. It is a pointedly unpointed irritation, a wide spectrum flare of sizzling annoyance.

She snatches at the cloak and brings it down to her face in two fistfuls, and, without so much as a by your leave, messily and bloodily blows her nose into it. She lets the rest of the cloak fall haphazard across her front, not quite hiding her heaving chest. She doesn't seem to care, because she doesn't.

"That's a disgusting habit, you know." She says, with absent meanness, looking out over the water in a squint. "Thoroughly unpleasant, and antisocial to boot."