[ For some reason, Linhardt is replying immediately, typing his response as he reads the incoming tirade. He has his answer partly composed - yes, they can do charades if that's her only way of actually communicating since she clearly doesn't understand that he's asking why they recorded the practice run at all if the technology is so unstable - but something he reads stops him in his tracks because it has to be wrong. Or hyperbole. Surely, it's hyperbole. The man looks down at the text he's composing, suddenly seeing it for the first time and then holding his thumb over the erasing button (which is so much more convenient than smudging away graphite) - forgoing continued hostilities in lieu of addressing something more important.]
How old are you?
Given our previous interactions, I should clarify I'm not asking to insult you or impugn your abilities. Something you said has to be hyperbole and I am doing the math to prove it to myself. Your age is a relevant variable. I am hoping you are much older than I think you are.
I'm glad you won't do this again.
[ That's all he actually cares about. Whether or not the two women hate him isn't relevant or important, and he doesn't need an apology. ]
Understandable angre - she's right he's a sanctimonious prick...
How old are you?
Given our previous interactions, I should clarify I'm not asking to insult you or impugn your abilities. Something you said has to be hyperbole and I am doing the math to prove it to myself. Your age is a relevant variable. I am hoping you are much older than I think you are.
I'm glad you won't do this again.
[ That's all he actually cares about. Whether or not the two women hate him isn't relevant or important, and he doesn't need an apology. ]