"Surely you'd rather have something that fitted you properly, though?" he asks, easily falling into step with her, watching closely. "Those dresses were tailored for someone else, after all...." Here he trails off again and this time there's a flash of anger at himself. Why can't he simply say what happened? It's completely irrational to think that not speaking of it would somehow make it untrue, make it so she'd simply gone missing and would walk in the door any day now....

He shivers, suddenly cold.