Again there's the press in her chest, and she can't stop herself from sounding bitter as her words come out.

"This is taking it for granted. Singing, dancing, pissing the troubles away while the troubles are still out there. We can do better for the ones we've lost. For the dead in the woods."

The last words come out rushed and tacked on, but she knows she means them. Maybe it got to her worse than she thought. Or maybe winter is just miserable despite the forced joy.