"Don't stop at the waistcoat on my account, my dear fellow." His eyebrows creep up, and Lesgle feels almost entirely himself. Joly rummaging about for pills or draughts or god-knows-what, that helps too.

"But how bad do you feel?" He's still a lump of achy, stuffy-headed, too-hot-and-too-cold sadness, eyebrows or no eyebrows, and he has nothing but sympathy for Joly's upcoming misery.