The hawk was ill, incondign, a thing created by wrong for purposes of wrong — bent away from its birth by a power that dared to warp nature.

Believers in a traditional Hellenophobia-Turkophobia would have stared at the sight of the Mytilene Greeks spreading farewell meals for their departing neighbours, and later accompanying them to the quay, where Christians and Mohammedans, who for a lifetime had been plowing adjacently and even sharing occasional backgammon games at village cafes, embraced and parted with tears.

A babel of languages could be heard in the streets and the squares, mingling with the local Provençal.

She was unrattled, despite the chaos all around.