You’ve cast off, cut off, everything—you will be cityless, accursed, an object of hatred, toxic to your own people. KLYTAIMESTRA : Oh now you pull out your code of justice—call me accursed, demand my exile! What about them? What about him? This man who, without a second thought, as if it were a goat dying, sacrificed his own child, my most beloved, my birthpang, my own—and he had flocks of animals to charm the winds of Thrace!
