Oh no, Byerly, I do not mean that. [ She hums, in a way, the Cetagandans were familiar to her. She had lived her youth in veils, screened away in curtains, secreted save for the call of her voice to the world around her. From what she had seen at the party, well, it struck her the same. The way the Mughal's would build their own imagined heavens, the way her husband would insist on the more public halls be painted with reds, and golds and be filled with Peacocks. They way the body was simply not enough, it was to be adorned, to be made perfect. Art, held inside and adorned around, the skin.

Had she not been the same, once? When Kashi had painted lotus to her hands, when her maids strung her hair with gold. Her husband had adored such displays, fostered them endlessly. ]

I mean your eyes are far too direct. They are too beautiful, and you have too much a feeling of being watched by them. Nothing I would have allowed were I still of my position to let look on me directly.