“Not really,” she says, studying the words - her gaze shifts, picking out the ones she knows the meaning of, going back over his translations in her head, trying to pick out the new, unfamiliar words from it. The grammar structure trips her up and her frown deepens, but it's barely there in the first place; she's still shaking herself out of the lull she had to try so hard not to slip into while he was reading to her.

Her split focus had been clear-- she'd been torn between watching his mouth for the words and looking back down at the page for the corresponding German text (but she can only look at one at a time and she'd nearly missed whole sentences letting herself try to flick back and forth), and the murmur of his voice, indistinct but having the soothing steadiness of recitation, had been a third distraction entirely, something that made her want to close her eyes and rest, a little. She hasn't been read to since she was a child.

She isn't a child any more, she reminds herself.

“Thank you, though,” after a beat, as if she's just now remembered that he's sitting beside her and deserves continued acknowledgement. It's not that she doesn't realize it's a bit awkward, the way she sometimes disappears in her own head, after all.