Lyubov nods, sympathetically. She leans on her walking stick, listening to Magne and considering the other woman, making a mental model of her—purposefully committing to memory how she moves, the specific contours of her face (piecemeal, not as a whole—faces to Lyubov will always be a collection of associated features, not a single thing with specific details), and what she says about herself (and what she omits). Standard stuff, really—she does this for just about everyone she befriends. If she makes not the effort, people start slipping from her memory, or at least from her awareness.

"My tradition ... nu, 'tis kinder to such as us, than the tradition of the land I was born in," she says, picking her words carefully. "Not always adequately kind, but, like. Valuing dignity, valuing life, such things can be extended in surprising ways. But still, I picked a side in liturgy. The Infinite One may know me as many things, but publicly ... nu, publicly I do the things men are obligated to do, and sit with the men in synagogue."

Her tone is light; she doesn't seem regretful, nor does she sound like the lightness is forced.

"But nu, like, not that anybody would mind if I sat with the women, some days," she adds. "But ... that would mean sitting apart from mine husband, and ..." she trails off, and blushes. "Nu, like. His mama, my shviger, she understood not. She thought like, I made not no stand for myself, but she got it in the end—"

A passing gust of wind makes her long coat flutter, interrupting her. She shivers.

"Nu, should we go in?" she says, a little apologetically. "'Tis chilly, and we ought to like, sit down and rest."