He supposes she's right, but he'd been there--not weaving wool, but standing on stairs of banks and important buildings, or at a corner passing things out. Snow falling, not wearing any gloves, handing out flyer after pamphlet after card. We need a second Salem! they'd often say. Fight against witches! He kept busy moving, yes, but his hands were still cold and stiff and he could never quite get warm on those winter days.

He hopes Margaery can.

More importantly--or perhaps just on the forefront of his mind--Margaery has animals. Actual animals. He wonders if it would be childish to ask to pet one, and immediately chides himself. Of course it is; he's a grown man.

"How did you get them? And so many?"