She wants nothing more than to stay in his arms, but a less pleasant pressure at her navel convinces her to stand and make her way on unsteady legs to the bathroom. She wonders, briefly, at the small pieces of home. The vase of lilies and knitted doilies beneath photographs.
Hans and his sister – he mentioned her, in passing. Not with any good taste. Elsa, he'd frowned, and was reluctant to speak. Anna understood his pain.
Seeing her, though... she struck a gorgeous figure. The blood between them can't be so terrible, if he still showed her proudly.