[Thanks to the war (both of them), and a husband whose back is thick with the scars of two hundred lashes given with a bullwhip, Claire remains still as a statue. Seeing soldiers is one thing; seeing someone you care for so abused is another entirely. It hurts. Yet she only lets her eyes roam over his frail body, silent. She does swallow hard, though, when she notes how his bones jut through his pale skin. While she knew he was thin, starved, she didn't quite reckon it was that bad. As she thought, the scars tell her a horrendous story, but she's glad to know it. No crying, no hand flying to her mouth to keep her heart from leaping from her throat.]
Do you like them? [She talks about the clothes because she knows it took a lot for him to let her see what he's become. He doesn't need to hear her mental checklist of what she believes she can work on.]
no subject
Do you like them? [She talks about the clothes because she knows it took a lot for him to let her see what he's become. He doesn't need to hear her mental checklist of what she believes she can work on.]
They suit you, I think.