( Her hand first holds — then trembles — then drifts down, the cut of her gaze sharpening. She sees him for what he is, now, not a saviour, not a potential instrument, but a mere intruder.

Perhaps one of countless many voices and faces who deride her, who live only to mock her hurts. Her husband's instruments. )

I am running. From that devil. That monster you call my husband. You have seen him? You have known him? How can any woman stand him? He is grotesque, he is feral, he is unforgiving.

( She gave up her child to blessed Waihu, and for her sacrifice, he shames her. )