Deepwood Weald What's the best mascara to cry in?

His chin dipped in greeting, svelte figure sweeping toward her and aligning himself at her side - the trees groaned to the wind, and the leaves whispered to one another in the shadows cast by both  naked trees and those still thick with emerald leaves; still the winter had yet to pass, and snow blanketed the earth in a coat of white. “Yes,” came the answer, low baritones rumbling into the air. To her preposition, he nodded again, ready to match whichever pace best suited her and luminescent eyes flickering back and forth in surveillance of the area.

“Of course.”