“‘That’s how it is, old girl. Kozma Ionitch is gone. He said goodbye to me. He is gone for no reason. Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were mother to that colt, and at once that little colt died. You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?’

“The mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands.”
—“Misery,” Anton Chekhov