She stared at Raven in a long second of shocked silence, before sagging to the floor.

Sometimes to be at home is like a nightmare by Stephen King.

There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman__he white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away, and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles__he work of a shell.The child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries__omething between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey__ startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child was a deaf mute.Then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the wreck.

The Professor gripped his axe, having pulled it, with some difficulty, from the boy's head.

An action, to have moral worth, must be done from duty.

There's no time like the present to love deeply, claim our power and live our purpose!