[Closes her eyes a moment, wincing as she reaches over to her still-clean clothes, tugging at pockets until she can pull out the small wooden case sheltering her hand-made mirror.
Getting it open is another ordeal, but still managed; she shelters it in her hand, at the end, too tired to do much more but rest her head back on the ground.]
There . . . that's better, isn't it? The puddle's . . . getting all dry.