"You are all of four years old," she says, scathingly, falling back on disdain without missing a beat, "You don't know a thing about standards - about adults - about tact - and I am not dignifying myself to a yammering cotton swab! Pfagh!"

That tears it, absolutely. Without further ado, she stiffens her upper lip and makes to barrel past the demonic infant and his profound misunderstanding of the entire situation, although she has, indeed, the restraint to not thank his ribs with a sharpish elbow for their troubles.