all Mari can see is one withered arm and a terrible, placid face. It would be, well, not better if the old woman were snapping or frothing at the mouth or swearing or something. But this is worse. No snarling, no spitting, no emotion at all — her milky eyes watch with sleepy disinterest as her gnarled hand tries to yank Mari to her death. Like the two are separate entities: the face does not care; the hand wants blood.
