Two women in dresses paneled with forked lightning stood talking, and three crossed the hall alone. She gave Nynaeve a slight push forward. With a flash of relieved grin, the sniffer heeled his horse onward. On the deck, Nynaeve caught a dockman's arm, a burly fellow in a coarse brown shirt with no sleeves.
She could not help it. That was not very meek, but it was the best she could do. Please to follow me. The Amyrlin herself, come with no more warning than a pack peddler.
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