Mudwoman’s Triumph. March 2003 Must ready yourself. Hurry! But there was no way she could ready herself for this. “I don’t wish to accuse anyone.” His name was Alexander Stirk. He was twenty years old. Formally and bravely he spoke. For his small prim child’s mouth had been kicked, torn and bloodied. His remaining good eye—the other was swollen shut, grotesquely bruised like a rotted fruit—was fixed on M.R. with hypnotic intensity as if daring her to look away. “Though I have, as you know, President Neukirchen—numerous enemies here on campus.” President Neukirchen. With such exaggerated respect this name was uttered, M.R. felt a tinge of unease—Is he mocking me? M.R. decided no, that wasn’t possible. Alexander Stirk could not mistake M.R.’s attentiveness to him for anything other than sympathy. His head was partly bandaged, with the look of a turban gone askew.
