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“Hri Sora stood transfixed upon her roof, watching the scene being played out on the streets of Etalpalli. She could not believe her eyes. The fire in he breast flared in her fury at such a picture of tenderness enacted in this place of death. She gnashed her teeth and tore at her own hair, leaving lines of blood streaming through the lank strands. "I must be mistaken!" she raged. "How can a woman of the Land be. . . be compassionate to one of them? The little monsters! The little fiends! They have his eyes, yet she stretches out her hand to them?” — Anne Elisabeth Stengl
Hri Sora stood transfixed upon her roof, watching the scene being played out on the streets of Etalpalli. She could not believe her eyes. The fire in he breast flared in her fury at such a picture of tenderness enacted in this place of death. She gnashed her teeth and tore at her own hair, leaving lines of blood streaming through the lank strands.
"I must be mistaken!" she raged. "How can a woman of the Land be. . . be compassionate to one of them? The little monsters! The little fiends! They have his eyes, yet she stretches out her hand to them?