Clement hoisted his lady. Agnes somehow managed to climb into the saddle, then she pulled to himself Clement. He whispered: - Madame, I love you so much. Is not it a miracle that we're together? - I love you too, my dear. But no, it's not a miracle. Only love can be eternal miracle. Unfortunately ... Unfortunately, they often forget about it. Go. First they drove in silence. Agnes frantically tried to recall the scene played out before her eyes, which cost the lives of two men. The scene, during which she became a double murderer. In vain. Fragments of images, sounds, feelings randomly flashed through her mind. Widely open mouth, crunching broken finger, the unbearable pain of the stirrup strap, glaring at her hip, crackling torn flesh, exhaustion, when she jumped out of the saddle. Nothing else. So few. She panicked. Had she turned into a monster, which is the death of the two men left untouched, without causing any emotional wounds? Of course, a nervous breakdown, crying in a loud voice to bring her relief. But Agnes's eyes remained dry. As for the emotional experiences, she has long forgotten what it is.
Sanai, Byzantium, Russia: Orthodox Christian Art from the Sixth to the Twentieth Century
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