When Shasta saw Margaret, she was emerging from that remote village, carrying something in her hands, and the scent of blood seemed to grow even stronger.
"You've killed how many more?"
"I didn't count," said the blood-soaked witch.
Another witch said, "Killing too many will cause you to lose yourself."
Margaret ignored her, "I want to spend money to buy things, but no one will sell to me."
"Looking like you do, anyone would be afraid."
"They pelt me with stones, throw pitchforks at me, curse me, swear at me—and all this happens before I do anything, say anything."
"Because they can guess who you are—you're not a runaway slave, a poverty-stricken peasant woman, a haggard prostitute, a down-and-out noblewoman. You enter the village alone, dressed like that—their first glance tells them what you are."
"They're not afraid of me, throwing stones, unwilling to listen to my intentions, nor to take my money."
