Anne watches Greta, taking in her slightly dirtied face and the unruly strands of hair that have come out of place, and her eyes end up tracking the clump of weeds to where she unceremoniously throws it. She blinks, mildly bemused at the ungainly toss and the affronted clucking that follows, her attention darting back to Greta at the question.

"I was, yeah," she answers, and hesitates, not quite sure what else she has to say for herself. A few possibilities crop up, but none of them sound right — feeble lies about happening by, or a belated request for permission to be here. It all feels so foreign to her, rules of conduct she never learned and now can't grasp for the life of her. But even without that to consider, she still has no explanation, no reason she can give to explain her presence.

"Y-you're busy," she says, shifting her weight back in a sudden abortive gesture. "Don't mean to intrude."