[She looks down at the handkerchief, then up at whatever... diseased mutant she assumes Discord to be. When Velvet speaks, her voice is as soft as her namesake and has the calm tenor (or alto, in her case) of restrained rage.]

I don't know who or even what you are, or what irradiated hole you stitched yourself together from, but you do not have the right to talk about her that way. The other Ministers, perhaps. But not her.