Face of a saint. Lips of a sinner
Her nose adorably scrunches up a bit as she hears words she doesn’t know: camera, photographs, things that would come to her world long after she would be dead. A life in front of < something > and hundreds of < somethings > means… what? A public life? “I’m sorry, I don’t know what a camera is. Or photographs,” she replies with a slip of a shrug. “You are absurdly tall, though. Maybe if you chop off half your legs, you won’t be so noticeable.” Teasing again, her gaze drifts to his lower limbs, imagining him without a good six inches or so. Everyone is like him where he’s from? The thought is… intriguing. Sexy. Lily had been exceptionally tall for a woman of the time, often needed dresses custom made for her, much to the chagrin of her employers, the thrifty jerks.
