But her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wild animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay.
He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat.
He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead pressed his fingers.

He could not bear to look upon her hair, still less upon her face.

Even his hands were white and bloodless.

Unorna could hear his quick breathing just above her shoulder.

She sat quite still, and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and almost sad.