He flinched at that. She was right, he knew she was right, and he was feeling rightfully like a scolded puppy dog. Hand moving to his face, he rubbed at his mouth, his hand brushing his nose, and then his rough cheek; he did not want to face her on this, because he did not want to lose her. And yet, rightful, righteously, he didn’t deserve her.
“To an extent.” Westley finally managed to say; he was a man, and he would act like one, abately a guilty and repentant one.