She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Been making herself at home all right.
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