Nesta: (dissapointed) There are days when I want to ask him if he remembers the years he almost let us starve to death. Feyre: You spent every copper I could get, too. Nesta: I knew you could always get more. And if you couldn’t, then I wanted to see if he would ever try to do it himself, instead of carving those bits of wood. If he would actually go out and fight for us. I couldn’t take care of us, not the way you did. I hated you for that. But I hated him more. He’s always known I hate him, even before we became poor. He let Mother die—he had a fleet of ships at his disposal to sail across the world for a cure, or he could have hired men to go into Prythian and beg them for help. But he let her waste away. I hate him.

Nesta: (irked) Go spew your fanatic nonsense to some ninny. You'll find no converts here!

Nesta: (frightened, angered) The first one who touches me LOSES THEIR EYES!