Adelaide does not roll her eyes, but it is a very near thing. There is an air, a weight to the cant of her head and arch of her brow that implies should she be the sort of woman that rolled her eyes, at that moment? She would have. But she is not. There fore the implication must hang in the air between them, hovering over the two playing kittens, before her attention returns to feeding them scraps of dried salmon.

It ought to be a familiar air and weight. One with which Detlef was graced many a time in the earliest stages of their association. "What are you going to do when she is grown? Get a bigger pouch?"