She looked up, expecting Aoifre. It was Uaithne. She leaned against the fence; her hood was drawn and snow clung to her hair. Her skin was creamy, fresh, with a delicate flush of exertion, and very smooth. Her gloves were tucked under her belt, next to her knife. The carving on the bone handle was smooth with use. She smiled.
-Nicola Griffith
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