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She gave Flint an appraising glance, but kept her opinions
to herself. "Out a bit late, weren't you?" She glanced down
at his bare, red feet. "I'll bet Aylmar's old boots would fit
you if you're needing a pair," she offered tactfully. She was
unfazed. Without waiting for an answer, she fetched a pair
of boots very like his own lost ones from the depths of the
house.
Flint slipped them on gratefully. They were a little big,
which was good now, considering his swollen feet. "Thanks
Berti," he said softly, "for the boots... and for not asking."
His sister-in-law knew what he meant and nodded, beat-
ing some eggs in a bowl. They ate a breakfast of scrambled
eggs, buttered bread with jam, and pungent chicory. Flint
was about to offer to help clean up when the front door
burst open and Tybalt stormed in, holding a pair of mud-
caked boots under his arm.
The young dwarf was clearly agitated as he approached
Flint. 'You recognize these?" he asked, holding the muddy
boots up. He looked at Flint's feet. "Those are Aylmar's old
ones! I knew these were yours!"
"Good morning to you, too, Brother," Flint said, trying
hard to sound nonchalant
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