Nethril, who for many a yén had gone by no other name, had come again to the Markets of Imladris with bolt upon bolt of cloth in many a colour, and Manadhlaer had to touch them all; rub some between thumb and finger to make sure the dye was fast even though it always was; and even sniff some to make sure of the fiber's provenance. Even her new stallion was bored -- resting his head on her shoulder, at last. He might have slobbered down the front of the dress she was already wearing, had she not shoved his heavy head away with an exclamation.
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Nethril
