There is some muffled conversation further down in the apartment, and Natasha - her own hair still dripping - returns with a towel.
"Here you go," she says, passing it over. "I'll just put the kettle on, and then sort myself out."
She feels muddled, and somewhat ungracious, but she's rapidly also feeling too tired to care. The kettle on her part of the stove, she quickly bustles out again. This time, her absence is a bit longer, but when she returns, she's wearing slippers and has a dressing gown over a dress that is, in fact, not black.
(Her mourning clothes are too good for hanging around the house on cold, wet nights.)
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"Here you go," she says, passing it over. "I'll just put the kettle on, and then sort myself out."
She feels muddled, and somewhat ungracious, but she's rapidly also feeling too tired to care. The kettle on her part of the stove, she quickly bustles out again. This time, her absence is a bit longer, but when she returns, she's wearing slippers and has a dressing gown over a dress that is, in fact, not black.
(Her mourning clothes are too good for hanging around the house on cold, wet nights.)
"Feeling any warmer?" she asks.