Quick words make long troubles. Lord Bryne, she said, patting (he gelding's neck, that isn't so, believe me. Some will believe that means you did bend knee. Nynaeve gave her skirts a jerk—in the mirror, the Sea Folk woman seemed to pluck at her trousers—and fixed Elayne with a glare.
Those people would be in the ragtag camp outside the walls. Colavaere had been wearing what must have been her finest gown, dark silk that glistened, with falls of delicate aged-ivory Sovarra lace. Just short of stout, with a twinkle in her eyes and a merry smile, Egwene's maid was always trying to slip advice to the Amyrlin as though talking about herself. It was quite a trick.
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