I cannot say it concerns me. ( She is breezily accepting when the cardigan is offered, straps it over her shoulders, leaves it at rest, dripped on her back. ) One woman living, another dead. How many die on this world, and you do not even know their names? What makes one different from the other? Only that you know her face, and it is a pretty one.

( She kneels, gently, by the fire. ) What is your plan for my sisters?