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Updated: May 1, 2025
You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a red horse. It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of <i>Joradighi</i> lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren. You are frightened and thinking "I know not where we have come to." I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid." The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs a narrow broken path.
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