Olga's seen too many of Katya's tantrums - there's nothing quite so deflating to a good rant as the other person not reacting at all. A good deal of the fight leeches out of her posture, and she shrugs.

"What would you have me do, Olya?" She sighs, left hand held up, pleading.

It should be the right.

But she'd really rather not move that, if necessary.