Laertes eases himself up from his knees--his thighs and calves burn; he had almost forgotten the strain he's put on them from kneading clay--and then steps out of the tub and takes down a towel. He dries himself, hair to shoulders, stomach to legs, enjoying the quiet pleasure of his own hands roughly working terrycloth over his skin. When he finishes, he looks up at Sagramore and smiles. He hopes that Sagramore was watching. He hopes that the sight was pleasing to him.