[ Alayne is fairly certain Jack could care less about what the dress looked like, but he asks because it's obviously important to her and it is the major thread to the day's weft. That was how loved work, wasn't it? You took the things that another person cared for and you made them your own. Just by virtue of the fact that they were considered noteworthy or worthwhile, they became a part of your life. Association by proxy.

Looking up at the ceiling to imagine the dress in her mind's eye, Alayne shrugs with both her shoulders and then sighs. ]

A purple as dark as winter grapes, dripping with beads from every inch and cut with daring throat. It was, I think, quite scandalous. [ Alayne looks at Jack and lifts her eyebrows. ] She was a very full woman. Were she to don it, no doubt she would pour from every seam. [ Now, now, Alayne. That's not nice. ]