Paul Krendler's remark was rude, of that there was no doubt. Not surprising, but very rude. But it would also be his last rude comment. At least in this world. "Paul," Hannibal chided the other man gently, "I will no longer tolerate your rudeness. Under other circumstances, I would insist that you apologize to Agent Starling, but at the moment, we do not have the time for that. Or should I say you do not have the time for that."
He pushed the chair to a position beside the sink, and scraped the leftovers from the meal into Paul's open skull, before tidying up the dishes, humming to himself softly. When the dishes were stacked neatly in the drainer to dry, he turned his attention to Paul once more.
Hannibal rewound his crossbow. Conveniently it used the same battery pack as his autopsy saw.
He did not keep Clarice waiting any longer than he had to, for that would be rude. He felt her frustration, wondered how much of it was due to not being able to assist the erstwhile FBI agent Krendler, how much stemmed from not succeeding in her attempted seduction of himself. By now, she was surely plotting her next move. That should undoubtedly prove to be interesting.
He returned to the dining room, his smile directed solely at Clarice. "Dessert is ready," he announced, "shall we repair to the drawing room? You'll find it much more comfortable there, Clarice." His maroon eyes glittered with anticipation.