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The wail from her carried a shrill knife in its grip and sliced the night like the flash of lightning across storm clouds. It cut deep into its marrow and from it bubbled the dark froth of pain. From it came a hymn of sadness, a chorus with a mortal taint. She reeked of age-earned wisdom, the fragrance suffusing the shack as she stepped in. In truth there was something festive about her noiseless shuffle despite her prominent stoop. A posture that has never deterred her from lashing.