The woman sitting by the edge of the water with her CiD and a packet of cigarettes might be familiar, but perhaps not immediately recognizable - she has feet and clothes this time, for one thing, and her eyes and her sheen are hidden beneath the illusion of humanity. The knife (sheathed, now) is the same, though, and when she sees him coming she recognizes him, briefly brightening as she notes he lived, looking more or less unharmed.

"Boromir," she says, leaning back on her hands. "You smell less like dead monkeys this time."

...how nice for him!