Sonja's only response to his words, and that infuriating grin, was a very satisfying slam of the door. If the walls were not too thick, it might be easy for him to hear the stream of decidedly unlady-like words spewing forth from her as she wrestles the heavy material of the unfinished gown from her shoulders. Sliding it off, finally, Sonja does take the time to drape it as best she could over the chair that occupies the rather bare room, out of difference for Greta's workmanship, not for Borghast's money he spent on the material.
For a long while her anger sustains her, pacing and cursing intermitantly. However, much as a candle that burns too bright, the fuel is quickly spent. And there in her solitude, or she assumes solitude after the man's sudden appearance from within the drapes she has decided not to take anything for granted, that she finally runs out of steam.
Sitting heavily on the bed, causing the springs to groan from the stress, Sonja draws up her knees to hug them to her chest, the shift cool against her cheek. Her thoughts whirled around the events of the morrow, picturing public execution, praying for strength to retain some dignity, to thoughts of Eva. She also remembered Jacov and each of the faces that she possibly caused a shorter life to, but Eva is who she kept returning too.
Laying down, still curled, Sonja did not sleep, instead she simply let the dampness on her cheeks feed the dark pit of hatred within her stomach, that steadily has been growing.