[she takes some stairs two at a time to catch up with him, but then she's stuck moving inch by painful inch behind him again. The more he talks, the warmer and madder she feels, until she's nearly shaking. No room to move around him—and she's not about to bowl over a guy with a bad leg, no matter how awful he is.]

[so instead, when she can't take his monologuing any longer, she simply vaults over the railing to her right and drops the short rest of the way to the ground floor. She rounds the bottom of the staircase and charges up to face him, stopping a couple steps below.]

Oh, will you shut up! [she kind of looks like she wants to set him on fire with her brain, but at least she's remembering her indoor voice.] Most people have the decency to accept help, when it's offered them, without picking apart why. Would you rather I take my "death stick" and leave you, alone, to whatever fate finds you? Would you find that more honest?