She can't complain about having a little more time to stare out the window. She assumes this is a concession to her request to go outside. He won't let her, thinks he can't let her, refuses to trust her. She can have an extra half hour of window time, maybe, if he's still feeling merciful in the morning. She's tried in her time here to think of his moods like the weather, but she's still angry at God; how can she fail to resent the judgement of a single man?

But all she can do is nod back. "Ask him about the last movement. The fifth one. Hope to fuck that he's a better dancer than he was at fourteen."