Nynaeve unbraids her hair by rote, washes her face in a basin of cool water, and slips out of her dress and into a plain cotton nightgown.
Then she sits on her bed, one leg hanging down, toes barely brushing the plush carpet, hands folded tightly in her lap.
It is so tempting, in this moment, to embrace saidar, draw it in until all she can feel
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