Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.*

As the Artemis went up, and her beam was outshone by the artificial shaft of light from the lamps on the ceilings, he stood up and was not blinded by both of the glows. Instead, his character radiated through the air, diffused onto the room, and it knocked down the windows and all the glasses from the bookcase. Slightly, very slightly, the floor trembled. The tables shook. The lift’s door quivered. The dust from the lamps up there was actually it fell apart. Yet these were unnoticed. All eyes were directed towards him.