It was a long time before he managed to get hold of himself again, and another few moments before he trusted that grip on his sanity enough to loosen his grip on her sweater. "You didn't dodge," he said, his voice husky with unshed tears, and took a deep, steadying breath. "If I hadn't pulled that punch, it would probably have broken something. Mine or yours." And, for all that he was still shaking perceptibly in her grip, there was something of the old Cuthbert in his voice, a wry sarcasm that slipped back into place with more ease than he'd imagined. "Me breaking my knuckles on a woman's face really would be the perfect end to a perfect day, wouldn't it?"

Then, more seriously, after another moment had passed, "I tried to get them out. Rebecca's girls. I put them on Glue Girl and headed them out of the city as soon as we knew Farson was on his way. They're probably still dead. But I tried."