channel in all, though Micara, who still held the shield on her, stood at the foot of the line rather than sitting. The air seemed twice as hot after the fog's cold; sweat rolled out of her, and seemed to drain her strength. The whole speech could not have been better designed to inflame Rand. We had words.
He finally looked over the books in his sitting room and began reading The Travels of Jain Farstrider, though he barely made out a word for worrying. Strips of grimy coatsleeve and pieces of shirtsleeve dangled as Rand reached to pick up the Laurel Crown. She seemed to think Egwene would be all aglow at the expectation of seeing faces from home. Keeping her promises to Master Cauthon—Mat—and to herself was going to be difficult, but nothing he said or did could touch her.
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