"It might be good for him to have some legitimate reason to frown," sounds like agreement as he twists the cloth in the other direction and wrings slightly more pinkish water from it. "I imagine he sometimes wearies of manufacturing cause."

There's no sidelong look with which to punctuate the statement, though the suggestion of one is easily detected floating about in the air or at the very edge of the timbre of Flint's voice there in the lavish room of the palazzo. He flicks a few spare water droplets from his fingers into the bowl, and then moves to take John's wrist in one hand and resumes wiping blood away with the other.

The buzzing sensation has left his leg by now.