The woman turned towards Clara. White like the underside of shelf mushrooms that grew in Founders' Grove, her face was familiar, as if the face of Dolorie, who had run away from Septemberclaver, never to be seen again, had metamorphized into the faces of the men who pursued Clara at night in her dreams.

The skin on her hands was thin; the bones over which it was tightly stretched were visible. In her left hand, she held a large, sharp heavy stone. From her stiff, wide mouth, a high-pitched sound, halfway between screaming and laughing. emerged -- as she moved slowly towards the place where Clara stood looking down into the foundation of the ruined house.