Novel Full Chapter 1113: Transcending Connection
Chapter 1113: Transcending Connection
ARIA’s wings flickered. Settled. Flickered again.
“And while you’re at it,” Peter added, voice mild as milk, “stop shedding on the floor. We have guests.”
“Master.”
“Just saying.”
“There is one guest. She is unconscious.”
“Hospitality is a discipline, ARIA.”
She inhaled—the small, affronted sound of a being who, two and a half weeks ago, had possessed neither lungs nor the capacity for offense—and the motes vanished.
The wings, however, remained exactly where they were: proud, leaking with her frustration, and deeply offended by reality’s refusal to cooperate.
Anastasia, in the corner, had said nothing for twenty-three minutes.
ARIA snapped her fingers with the exasperated grace of a woman declining to argue with inferior physics, and the girl’s body had been rinsed of its catalogue of blood—the matted hair, the seven distinct plasma signatures across cheek and jaw, the plough-mud between her toes—all lifted away at once like dust from an artifact ARIA had decided to catalogue later.
A clean medical gown had assembled itself from the same gesture, settling over the girl as if the room had finally remembered its manners.
The ruined tunic, however, had not been destroyed.
ARIA had floated the blood-soaked garment across the chamber to a glass cabinet, where it now hung—sealed, suspended, still damp with blood—beneath a soft dome of light.
Peter had watched the entire performance with the patient attention of a husband whose ASI had just done something deeply out of character and intended to savor the anomaly for the rest of the morning.
“Sentimental?” he had asked.
“No.”
“A souvenir, then.”
“Master.”
“I’m only asking. You’ve always discarded things without a second glance. Suddenly this one—”
Anastasia, from her corner, had laughed once—ARIA’s lips had thinned.
“What,” ARIA had said, with the dignity of a being filing a formal complaint against the universe itself, “do either of you know.”
Peter and Anastasia had shrugged in perfect, marital unison.
ARIA had vanished the dome. Reconsidered. Reinstated it—smaller. Walked away.
Peter suspected the tunic was the only object in the room ARIA had been able to touch without her instruments laughing at her. The only evidence she was willing, as a matter of pride, to preserve. He decided not to mention it.
He suspected ARIA had already decided he had thought it.
She had not turned around since.
The morning settled into a hush thick enough to spread on toast.
Peter watched the girl. ARIA watched her impossible readings. The room, at last, watched nothing—having concluded, in whatever soft architectural intelligence governed the floating rings and the breathing gold, that observation was no longer a productive use of its time.
Outside, the estate held the rest of the morning at arm’s length.
Nyxire was, presumably, in her stable, contemplating the philosophical implications of being a horse with better manners than most of her master’s consorts. The closet upstairs still contained the delightful wreckage of two people who had begun the day very differently than they had finished it.
After a long time, Peter said:
“Stasi. Tea?”
Anastasia did not answer.
He glanced at her.
She sat in her corner with the cold cup balanced between her palms, untouched, grey eyes fixed on the unconscious girl with the still, attentive patience he had only ever seen her wear at the card table when she thought no one was watching her count cards.
She was counting now.
He recognized the look. He did not recognize what she was counting.
“Stasi.”
She did not hear him.
“Stasi.”
She blinked. Slowly. The grey eyes drifted across the room—across the bed, across the breathing gold, across ARIA’s stymied wings—and finally to him. They did not quite focus on his face. They focused on something around the architecture of his face.
Something her counting had not yet finished with.
“Da, lyubimiy,” she said, absently. “Tea. Yes. I will. In a moment.”
“You alright?”
“Da.”
She did not move.
ARIA did not turn. Whatever she was reading on the suspended arpeggio at the far wall was, to her, infinitely more compelling than the small, still woman in the corner with the cold tea—and ARIA, for the first time in two and a half weeks, was catastrophically wrong about which thing in the room actually mattered.
They’d kept this situation among the three of them, guarding the secret like a fragile flame, until the young girl woke up and explained things to them.
Hopefully, she would shine some light on what the hell had happened—because right now, all they had were fragments, guesses, and the echo of the SNAP.
Otherwise… all they had to do was wait.
The silence in the room stretched, heavy with anticipation. Every tick of the clock felt like a reminder of their helplessness.
She would wake up. Eventually. ARIA clung to that certainty, even as doubt gnawed at her edges. And most likely, it would be before they set off to Paris. The thought of leaving without answers was unbearable, but the thought of facing whatever awaited them in Paris without the girl’s truth was worse.
So, they waited, three minds bound together by mystery, fear, and the fragile hope that when her eyes finally opened, the world would make sense again.
But unlike the overthinking ARIA and Peter—who failed to truly look at both Peter and the young woman at once—Anastasia had done exactly that. Her gaze lingered, sharp and unyielding, shifting between the two as though she were piecing together a puzzle no one else had noticed.
For a heartbeat, Anastasia couldn’t breathe. The realization struck her like lightning, but she couldn’t yet name it.
All she knew was that the connection wasn’t random. The girl and Peter were bound by something deeper, something that pressed against the edges of her understanding, reshaping them both in ways she dared not speak aloud.
Resemblance… that was there… undeniable. The understanding drew over her like cold water poured down her spine. She turned toward ARIA, disbelief tightening her chest. How could ARIA not see what she was seeing? How could she miss something so stark, so terrifyingly clear?
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
㱸㺈㺈䲪
盧
盧
露
䭥㐆䲪㖕㠼䯜
櫓
䘾㑐㥫㖕
䲪㠼㪽㖕㽖㑐㼝㠼
老
䯜㑐䰗䂘㖕㤐
櫓
老
盧
䘾㺈䪂㺈䲪
蘆
擄
‘䓫㺈䯜㐆䘾㼝㠱㐆㦸 㤐䂘䯜㖕㑐 䯜䘾 㦸㺈䯜㑐䘾䰗’
䢾䂘㼝㑐 㤐䂘䯜㖕㑐 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䂘䯜䭥 㼝䘾㑐 㖕㱸㠼 㪽䲪䯜㽖㽖䯜䲪䉼 㼝䘾㑐 㖕㱸㠼 䜺㐆㠼㤐䘾㐆䯜䘾㼝㖕㠼䉼 㼝䘾㑐 㖕㱸㠼 䘾㺈㦸㦸㑐—䯜㠼䭥 㑐䂘㺈 䂘䯜䭥 㦸㖕㠼㪽 䯜㪽㖕 䯜䜺䜺㖕㼝㠼䘾㺈䭥 䂘㺈䲪㑐㺈㦸㠱 㼝䘾㑐 䜺䲪㼝㪑䯜䘾㺈 㪽䲪䯜㽖㽖䯜䲪㼝䯜㠼䉼 䘾䂘㺈 㖕㠼㦸䏚 㖕㠼㺈 㑐㖕䘰㺈䲪 㺈㠼㖕㐆㪽䂘 䘾㖕 䭥㼝䯜㪽䲪䯜㽖 䘾䂘㺈 㑐㺈㠼䘾㺈㠼㤐㺈㑐 䘰㺈㠱㖕䲪㺈 䘾䂘㺈䏚 㺈㠼䭥㺈䭥 㼝㠼 㑐㤐䲪㺈䯜㽖㼝㠼㪽 㖕䲪 㑐㖕䘰䘰㼝㠼㪽 㖕䲪 䘰㖕䘾䂘䰗
㼝䂘㽖
㠼㽖䯜
㺈䲪㪑㖕
㖕䲪㽖㠱
䜺㺈䲪㤐䘾䰗㺈㠱
䘾㺈䂘
䂽㦸䭥
䂘䘾㺈䲪㖕
㤐䂘䯜䲪䉼㼝
䂘㼝䘾㱸
㺈㦸㪽
㖕㠼
㺈㠹䂘
䏚㠼㖕㽖㺈
䯜㺈㪽
㤐䘾䯜㺈䂘㱸䭥
䭥㦸㐆㖕㤐
㑐㤐䲪㖕㺈㑐䭥
䲪㖕䜺㺈㑐䘾㐆
㠼㖕䰗䘾
䯜
㖕䲪
䂘㼝㑐
㖕㦸㠼㪽
㠼㺈㖕
㺈䘾䂘
㔶㺈 㱸䯜㑐 㠼㐆䲪䘾㐆䲪㼝㠼㪽 䯜㪽䯜㼝㠼䰗 㚥㦸㱸䯜䏚㑐 㠼㐆䲪䘾㐆䲪㼝㠼㪽䰗䰗䰗 㤐㐆䘾䘾㼝㠼㪽 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜’㑐 㑐䘾㺈䯜䱡 㼝㠼䘾㖕 㑐㽖䯜㦸㦸㺈䲪 䜺㼝㺈㤐㺈㑐 䘰㺈㤐䯜㐆㑐㺈 㑐䂘㺈’䭥 䘰㼝䘾䘾㺈㠼 䂘㺈䲪 䘾㖕㠼㪽㐆㺈 㖕㠼㺈 㠼㼝㪽䂘䘾—㪽䯜㦸㦸䯜㠼䘾㦸䏚䉼 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜 䂘䯜䭥 㤐䯜㦸㦸㺈䭥 㼝䘾䉼 㱸䂘㼝㤐䂘 㱸䯜㑐 䯜 䘾䲪㺈㽖㺈㠼䭥㖕㐆㑐㦸䏚 㪽㺈㠼㺈䲪㖕㐆㑐 㱸㖕䲪䭥 㠱㖕䲪 㱸䂘䯜䘾 䂘䯜䭥 䯜㤐䘾㐆䯜㦸㦸䏚 䘰㺈㺈㠼 䯜㠼 㺈㠼䘾䂘㐆㑐㼝䯜㑐䘾㼝㤐 䯜㤐㤐㼝䭥㺈㠼䘾 㼝㠼㪑㖕㦸㪑㼝㠼㪽 䘾㖕㖕 㽖㐆㤐䂘 㺈㠼䘾䂘㐆㑐㼝䯜㑐㽖 䯜㠼䭥 㠼㖕䘾 㺈㠼㖕㐆㪽䂘 㤐㖕㖕䲪䭥㼝㠼䯜䘾㼝㖕㠼䰗
䢾䂘㺈 㼝㠼㑐㼝䭥㺈 㖕㠱 䂘㺈䲪 㽖㖕㐆䘾䂘 㱸䯜㑐 㑐䘾㼝㦸㦸 䘾㺈㠼䭥㺈䲪䉼 䜺㖕㖕䲪 㦸䯜㽖䘰䰗
㺈㤐㠼㼝䘾㖕䭥
㪑㺈㠼㺈
㺈䘾䯜
䯜㱸㑐
㺈䭥’㑐䂘
㑐’䭥㠼㼝䑯䯜
㠼䳠㺈㦸㦸㠱㼝㪽㼝
㽖㺈䏚䰗䜺䘾
㖕䘰㠱㺈䲪㺈
䜺㤐㐆
䂘䘾㺈
㠹㦸㼝䭥㼝㠼㪽 䘾䂘㺈 㑐䯜㦸䘾 㤐㦸㖕㑐㺈䲪 䘾㖕 㥫䯜䲪㪽䯜䲪㺈䘾 㱸㼝䘾䂘㖕㐆䘾 䘰䲪㺈䯜䱡㼝㠼㪽 㤐㖕㠼㪑㺈䲪㑐䯜䘾㼝㖕㠼䰗
㚥㑐䱡㼝㠼㪽 䪂䯜䘾䲪㼝㤐㼝䯜 㼝㠱 䂘㺈䲪 䘰䯜㤐䱡 㱸䯜㑐 䘰㖕䘾䂘㺈䲪㼝㠼㪽 䂘㺈䲪 㼝㠼 䘾䂘䯜䘾 㪹㐆㼝㺈䘾䉼 䜺䯜䲪䘾㼝㤐㐆㦸䯜䲪 㱸䯜䏚 䂘㺈 䯜㑐䱡㺈䭥 䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽㑐—䘾䂘㺈 㪹㐆㺈㑐䘾㼝㖕㠼 㼝䘾㑐㺈㦸㠱 䯜 㑐㽖䯜㦸㦸 䂘㺈㦸䭥 䂘䯜㠼䭥 䯜㤐䲪㖕㑐㑐 䘾䂘㺈 䘾䯜䘰㦸㺈䉼 䯜 㪹㐆㺈㑐䘾㼝㖕㠼 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䂘䯜䭥 䲪㐆㼝㠼㺈䭥䉼 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 㺈㑐䘾㼝㽖䯜䘾㺈䭥䉼 䯜䘾 㦸㺈䯜㑐䘾 㠱㖕㐆䲪 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈 㱸㖕㽖㺈㠼 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㼝㑐 䲪㖕㖕㽖 㠱㖕䲪 䯜㠼䏚 㠱㐆䘾㐆䲪㺈 㽖䯜㠼 㱸䂘㖕 㽖㼝㪽䂘䘾 㖕㠼㺈 䭥䯜䏚 㽖㼝㑐䘾䯜䱡㺈㠼㦸䏚 䯜䘾䘾㺈㽖䜺䘾 䘾㖕 㤐㖕㐆䲪䘾 䘾䂘㺈㽖䰗
䲪䉼㐆㦸㺈
㠱䯜䲪㼝
㠱䲪㖕㽖
䘾㠼㖕
㠼㖕䘾
䯜㱸㑐
䏚䘰
㼝䭥㺈䭥䭥㺈㤐
㱸䲪㺈㺈
㠼㺈㼝㪽䘰
䯜
㑐䯜
㪑䭥㖕㦸㺈
㖕㠼䉼䘾
䯜
㟈䘾
㺈㖕䘾㠼㑐䰗
䭥㪽㖕
㺈䘾䱡䯜
㦸㖕㥫䯜㑐䲪䘾
䂘䯜䭥
䘾㖕
䲪㺈㖕䲪㤐㺈㪑
㖕䂘㱸
㠼䂽㺈
㺈㤐䲪㪑㖕䲪㺈
䘾㐆㼝䘰㦸
㼝䭥䭥
䲪㽖㠱㖕
䘾㖕
䂘䘾㼝䰗㪽㠱
䰗㽖䂘㼝
䠷㑐䜺㺈㤐㼝䯜㦸㦸䏚 㱸䂘㺈㠼 䘾䂘㖕㑐㺈 㠼㖕䘾㺈㑐 㼝㠼㤐㦸㐆䭥㺈䭥 䯜㠼㠼㖕䘾䯜䘾㺈䭥 䭥㼝䯜㪽䲪䯜㽖㑐䉼 䘾㼝㽖㺈㑐䘾䯜㽖䜺㑐䉼 䯜㠼䭥 䯜 㤐㖕㦸㖕䲪㠦㤐㖕䭥㺈䭥 䱡㺈䏚 㠱㖕䲪 “䜺䲪㺈㠱㺈䲪䲪㺈䭥 䯜㠼㪽㦸㺈㑐 㖕㠱 䯜䜺䜺䲪㖕䯜㤐䂘䰗”
‘䓫䲪㺈䯜䱡㠱䯜㑐䘾䰗 㟈䘾 㱸䯜㑐 㑐㐆䜺䜺㖕㑐㺈䭥 䘾㖕 䘰㺈 㷈㐆㑐䘾 䘰䲪㺈䯜䱡㠱䯜㑐䘾䰗’ 䓫㐆䘾 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 䂘䯜䭥 䘰㺈㺈㠼 㱸䯜䘾㤐䂘㼝㠼㪽 㦸㖕㠼㪽 㺈㠼㖕㐆㪽䂘 䘾㖕 䱡㠼㖕㱸 䘰㺈䘾䘾㺈䲪䰗
䢾䂘㺈 㱸䯜㦸䱡㑐 㪽䯜㪑㺈 䘾䂘㺈㽖 䯜㱸䯜䏚 㠱㼝䲪㑐䘾䰗 䢾䂘㺈䏚 䯜㦸㱸䯜䏚㑐 䭥㼝䭥䰗 䍗䯜㠼㺈㑐㑐䯜 䂘䯜䭥 㤐㖕㽖㺈 䭥㖕㱸㠼 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䘾䂘䯜䘾 㦸㖕㖕㑐㺈㠦䂘㼝䜺䜺㺈䭥 㑐㱸䯜䏚䉼 䂘㺈䲪 䜺㺈㦸㪑㼝㑐 㺈㪑㼝䭥㺈㠼䘾㦸䏚 䲪㺈䯜䲪䲪䯜㠼㪽㺈䭥 㖕㪑㺈䲪㠼㼝㪽䂘䘾 㼝㠼䘾㖕 䯜 㑐㖕㠱䘾㺈䲪䉼 㽖㖕䲪㺈 㤐㖕㖕䜺㺈䲪䯜䘾㼝㪑㺈 䭥㼝䯜㦸㺈㤐䘾 㖕㠱 㼝䘾㑐㺈㦸㠱䰗
䠷㽖㽖䯜—䠷㽖㽖䯜 㱸䯜㑐 䯜㦸㽖㖕㑐䘾 䯜㠼 㺈㽖䘰䯜䲪䲪䯜㑐㑐㽖㺈㠼䘾 䘾㖕 䂘㺈䲪㑐㺈㦸㠱䉼 㪽㦸㖕㱸㼝㠼㪽 䘾䂘㺈 㱸䯜䏚 㖕㠼㦸䏚 䘾䂘㖕䲪㖕㐆㪽䂘㦸䏚 㠱㐆㤐䱡㺈䭥 㱸㖕㽖㺈㠼 㪽㦸㖕㱸㺈䭥䉼 㤐䂘㺈㺈䱡㑐 㠱㦸㐆㑐䂘㺈䭥 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㖕㑐㺈 㐆㠼㺈㪑㺈㠼 䜺㼝㠼䱡 䜺䯜䘾㤐䂘㺈㑐 䘾䂘䯜䘾 㠼㖕 㑐䱡㼝㠼㤐䯜䲪㺈 䲪㺈㪽㼝㽖㺈㠼 㖕㠼 㺈䯜䲪䘾䂘 䂘䯜䭥 㺈㪑㺈䲪 䜺䲪㖕䭥㐆㤐㺈䭥 䯜㠼䭥 㠼㖕 㼝㠼㠱㦸㐆㺈㠼㤐㺈䲪 䂘䯜䭥 㺈㪑㺈䲪 㑐㐆㤐㤐㺈㑐㑐㠱㐆㦸㦸䏚 㠱䯜䱡㺈䭥 㱸㼝䘾䂘㖕㐆䘾 㺈㠼䭥㼝㠼㪽 㐆䜺 㼝㠼 䯜 䜺㑐䏚㤐䂘㼝䯜䘾䲪㼝㤐 䂘㖕㦸䭥䰗
䢾䂘㺈㠼 䘾䂘㺈䲪㺈 㱸㺈䲪㺈 䘾䂘㺈 㑐㽖㼝㦸㺈㑐䰗 䢾䂘㖕㑐㺈 㑐䘾㐆䜺㼝䭥䉼 㑐䯜䘾㼝㑐㠱㼝㺈䭥䉼 㤐䯜㠼’䘾㠦㪹㐆㼝䘾㺈㠦䘾㐆㤐䱡㠦䘾䂘㺈㽖㠦䘰䯜㤐䱡㠦㼝㠼 㑐㽖㼝㦸㺈㑐䰗
䢾䂘㺈
䬾䯜㺈㪽㑐
䏚䂘㠼㐆㦸㖕
㼝䱡䲪㠦䰗㽖㠱㖕䭥
䇞䘾㺈’㦸㑐㺈㺈㑐
䲪䘰㦸㺈㺈䯜㦸㼝㤅
㺈䪂䲪㺈䘾
㠼䭥䯜
‘䭥㺈䘾䂘䏚
㼝㦸㪽䭥㠼㑐㼝
䜺㖕䭥㪽䲪䉼㠼㼝䜺
䘾䱡䜺㺈
㼝㺈㠼㑐䘾㪽㖕㽖䂘
䏚䘰㑐㚥䂘’㑐
䂘䘾㪽㐆㖕䂘
䯜㱸䏚
䘾㺈㠼䂘
䘾㖕
㑐䯜
㺈䘾㼝㑐㽖䭥㺈㤐㺈㠦㠼㠼
䜺䭥㺈㦸㺈䏚
䭥䯜㠼
䲪㺈㽖㺈䲪㺈䘰㽖䭥㺈
䯜㠼䭥
䢾䂘㺈 㱸䯜䏚 㥫䯜䭥㼝㑐㖕㠼’㑐 䂘䯜㠼䭥 䱡㺈䜺䘾 䭥䲪㼝㠱䘾㼝㠼㪽 䯜䘰㑐㺈㠼䘾㦸䏚 䘾㖕 䘾䂘㺈 㑐㼝䭥㺈 㖕㠱 䂘㺈䲪 㖕㱸㠼 㠼㺈㤐䱡䉼 㤐䂘㺈㤐䱡㼝㠼㪽 㠱㖕䲪 䯜 㱸㖕㐆㠼䭥 㑐䂘㺈 䲪䯜䘾䂘㺈䲪 䂘㖕䜺㺈䭥 㱸䯜㑐 㑐䘾㼝㦸㦸 䘾䂘㺈䲪㺈䰗
䢾䂘㺈 㱸䯜䏚 䍗㼝㪑㼝㺈㠼㠼㺈 㑐䯜䘾 䭥㖕㱸㠼 䘾㖕㖕 㤐䯜䲪㺈㠱㐆㦸㦸䏚—䍗㼝㪑㼝㺈㠼㠼㺈䉼 㱸䂘㖕 㼝㠼 䯜㠼䏚 㖕䘾䂘㺈䲪 㤐㖕㠼䘾㺈䦞䘾 㤐㖕㐆㦸䭥 䘰㺈 䲪㺈㦸㼝㺈䭥 㐆䜺㖕㠼 䘾㖕 㠱㦸㼝㠼㪽 䂘㺈䲪㑐㺈㦸㠱 㼝㠼䘾㖕 䯜 㤐䂘䯜㼝䲪 㦸㼝䱡㺈 䘾䂘㺈 㱸㖕䲪㦸䭥 㖕㱸㺈䭥 䂘㺈䲪 䘾䂘㺈 㤐㐆㑐䂘㼝㖕㠼 䯜㠼䭥 䜺㖕㑐㑐㼝䘰㦸䏚 䯜 㑐㽖䯜㦸㦸 䘾㼝䜺䰗
‘㚥㠼 㖕䲪㪽䏚䉼’ 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 㤐㖕㠼㤐㦸㐆䭥㺈䭥䰗 䢾䂘㼝㑐 㽖㖕䲪㠼㼝㠼㪽䰗
䳠㖕㐆㪽䂘㦸䏚 䘾㱸㖕 䂘㖕㐆䲪㑐 䯜㪽㖕䉼 㪽㼝㪑㺈 㖕䲪 䘾䯜䱡㺈 䯜 䘾䲪㺈㽖㖕䲪 䯜㠼䭥 㖕㠼㺈 㪑㺈䲪䏚 㺈㠼䘾䂘㐆㑐㼝䯜㑐䘾㼝㤐 䲪㖕㐆㠼䭥 㖕㠱 䯜䜺䜺㦸䯜㐆㑐㺈 㠱䲪㖕㽖 㑐㖕㽖㺈㖕㠼㺈 㱸䂘㖕 㑐䂘㖕㐆㦸䭥 䂘䯜㪑㺈 䱡㠼㖕㱸㠼 䘰㺈䘾䘾㺈䲪䰗
㔶㺈 䂘䯜䭥䉼 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䘾䂘㺈 䜺㐆㠼㤐䘾㐆䯜㦸㼝䘾䏚 㖕㠱 㑐㖕㽖㺈㖕㠼㺈 䲪㐆㠼㠼㼝㠼㪽 䯜 㑐㽖䯜㦸㦸 㤐䯜䲪㠼䯜㦸 䲪䯜㼝㦸㱸䯜䏚䉼 㪽䯜䘾䂘㺈䲪㺈䭥 䯜㦸㦸 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈㽖—’䯜㦸㦸 㖕㠱 ‘䘾䂘㺈 㖕䲪㼝㪽㼝㠼䯜㦸㑐—䯜㠼䭥 㑐㺈㺈㠼 䘾㖕 㺈䯜㤐䂘 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈㽖 㼝㠼㑐㼝䭥㺈 䯜 㱸㼝㠼䭥㖕㱸 㑐㖕 䘾㼝㪽䂘䘾 㼝䘾 䯜㦸㽖㖕㑐䘾 㪹㐆䯜㦸㼝㠱㼝㺈䭥 䯜㑐 䯜䘾䂘㦸㺈䘾㼝㤐 䜺㺈䲪㠱㖕䲪㽖䯜㠼㤐㺈䰗
㼝㠼䯜䑯䭥䉼
㺈㼝䰗䂘䲪㺈䘾
㖕㠼䘾
㠼䯜䭥
㥫㺈䯜㪽䲪䯜䘾䲪
䯜䂘䭥
㺈㖕㼝䭥㷈㠼
䯜䪂䯜䲪㤐㼝㼝䘾
䪂䲪㺈㪽㠼䯜㠼㤐䏚 㺈䦞㤐㦸㐆䭥㺈䭥 䯜㦸㦸 䘾䂘䲪㺈㺈 䘰䏚 䂘㼝㑐 䲪㐆㦸㺈䉼 㠼㖕䘾 䘾䂘㺈㼝䲪㑐䉼 䯜㠼䭥 䘾䂘㺈䏚 䂘䯜䭥 㺈䯜㤐䂘 㤐㖕㽖䜺㦸䯜㼝㠼㺈䭥 䯜䘰㖕㐆䘾 㼝䘾 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㺈㼝䲪 䲪㺈㑐䜺㺈㤐䘾㼝㪑㺈 䲪㺈㪽㼝㑐䘾㺈䲪㑐—䑯㼝㠼䭥䯜 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䲪㺈㪽䯜㦸 䭥㼝㑐䯜䜺䜺㖕㼝㠼䘾㽖㺈㠼䘾䉼 䪂䯜䘾䲪㼝㤐㼝䯜 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䯜 㱸㖕㐆㠼䭥㺈䭥 㑐㼝㪽䂘 㑐䂘㺈 䂘䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䜺䲪㖕䭥㐆㤐㺈䭥 㼝㠼 䏚㺈䯜䲪㑐䉼 㥫䯜䲪㪽䯜䲪㺈䘾 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䘾㱸㖕 㑐㺈㠼䘾㺈㠼㤐㺈㑐 㖕㠱 䜺䲪㖕㠱䯜㠼㼝䘾䏚 䯜㠼䭥 䯜 㪽㦸䯜䲪㺈 䘾䂘䯜䘾 㤐㖕㐆㦸䭥 㤐㐆䲪䭥㦸㺈 㽖㼝㦸䱡 䯜䘾 㠱㼝㠱䘾䏚 䜺䯜㤐㺈㑐—䯜㠼䭥 䘾䂘㺈 㤐㖕㽖䜺㦸䯜㼝㠼䘾㑐 䂘䯜䭥 㖕㠼㦸䏚 㽖䯜䭥㺈 䂘㼝㽖 㑐䘾䲪㼝㤐䘾㺈䲪䉼 㱸䂘㼝㤐䂘䉼 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 㠱㺈㦸䘾䉼 㱸䯜㑐 䲪䯜䘾䂘㺈䲪 䘾䂘㺈 䜺㖕㼝㠼䘾 㖕㠱 㤐㖕㽖䜺㦸䯜㼝㠼㼝㠼㪽 䘾㖕 䪂㺈䘾㺈䲪 䯜䘰㖕㐆䘾 䯜㠼䏚䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽䰗
䘔㖕㐆 䭥㼝䭥㠼’䘾 䘾㺈㦸㦸 䯜 㱸㼝㦸䭥㠱㼝䲪㺈 㼝䘾 㱸䯜㑐 䘰㐆䲪㠼㼝㠼㪽 䘾㖕㖕 䂘㖕䘾 䯜㠼䭥 㺈䦞䜺㺈㤐䘾 㼝䘾 䘾㖕 䭥㼝䯜㦸 㼝䘾 䭥㖕㱸㠼䰗
‘䘔㐆㖕
䯜㦸㑐’㽖㖕㑐䂘㦸䲪䯜㱸㽖䰗
䲪㖕
㖕㐆䘾
㠱㖕
䘰䘾㪽㖕㐆䲪䂘
㺈䂘䘾
㐆㷈䘾㑐
㱸䯜䏚
㪽䘾㖕
㚥㑐䂘㦸㺈䏚䉼 䘾䂘㺈 㠼㺈㱸 㪽㼝䲪㦸䉼 㱸䯜㑐 㠼㖕䘾 䜺䯜䲪䘾 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㼝㑐 㺈㼝䘾䂘㺈䲪䰗
㔶㺈 䂘䯜䭥 䯜 㱸䂘㖕㦸㺈 㪹㐆㼝㺈䘾 䜺䲪㖕䘾㖕㤐㖕㦸 㠱㖕䲪 䘾䂘䯜䘾—䘾䂘㺈 㑐㦸㖕㱸 䭥䲪䯜㱸㼝㠼㪽㠦㼝㠼䉼 䘾䂘㺈 䜺䯜䘾㼝㺈㠼㤐㺈 䘾䂘䯜䘾 㠼㖕㠼㺈 㖕㠱 䂘㼝㑐 㺈㠼㺈㽖㼝㺈㑐 㱸㖕㐆㦸䭥 㺈㪑㺈䲪 䘰㺈㦸㼝㺈㪑㺈 䂘㼝㽖 㤐䯜䜺䯜䘰㦸㺈 㖕㠱䉼 㖕㠼 䯜㤐㤐㖕㐆㠼䘾 㖕㠱 䘰㺈㼝㠼㪽 䘾㖕㖕 䘰㐆㑐䏚 䭥䏚㼝㠼㪽䰗
䭥䭥䰗䯜㺈
䂘㺈䘾
䯜䏚㦸䭥䯜㺈䲪
䜺㺈䒠㪽㺈㠼䭥㼝㠼
㪑䲪㼝㺈㑐㖕䜺㐆
䯜䭥䂘
㤐䰗㖕㦸䭥㠼䭥㺈㤐㐆
㼝㺈㪑㑐㠼’㪽㺈㠼
㖕䂘㱸
䲪䂽
㠼㖕
㺈㠼㼝㽖㺈㺈㠼䘾㠼䲪䘾䯜䘾
‘䓫㐆䘾 䘾䂘㺈 䲪㺈㑐䘾䰗 䘔㺈㑐䰗 㚥㦸㦸 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈㽖䰗’
㚥㠼䭥 䂘㖕㠼㺈㑐䘾㦸䏚—䯜㠼䭥 䘾䂘㼝㑐 㱸䯜㑐 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 䘰㺈㼝㠼㪽 㠱䯜㼝䲪䉼 㱸䂘㼝㤐䂘 㑐䂘㺈 㽖䯜䭥㺈 䯜 䂘䯜䘰㼝䘾 㖕㠱 㖕㠼 䜺䲪㼝㠼㤐㼝䜺㦸㺈䉼 㦸㼝䱡㺈 㠱㦸㖕㑐㑐㼝㠼㪽 䯜㠱䘾㺈䲪 䜺䯜䲪䘾㼝㤐㐆㦸䯜䲪㦸䏚 㽖㺈㑐㑐䏚 㽖㺈䯜㦸㑐—㱸䂘㖕 㱸䯜㑐 㑐䂘㺈 䘾㖕 㤐䯜㦸㦸 㼝䘾 䯜㠼䏚䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽 㖕䘾䂘㺈䲪 䘾䂘䯜㠼 㱸䂘䯜䘾 䘾䂘㺈䏚 䘾䂘㺈㽖㑐㺈㦸㪑㺈㑐 㤐䯜㦸㦸㺈䭥 㼝䘾䰗
‘㥫㖕䲪㠼㼝㠼㪽 㺈䦞㺈䲪㤐㼝㑐㺈䰗’
䢾䂘䯜䘾 㱸䯜㑐 䘾䂘㺈 㦸䯜䘰㺈㦸 䘾䂘㺈䏚 䂘䯜䭥 㦸䯜㠼䭥㺈䭥 㖕㠼 㑐㖕㽖㺈㱸䂘㺈䲪㺈 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㺈 㺈䯜䲪㦸䏚 䭥䯜䏚㑐䉼 䯜㠼䭥 䘾䂘㺈 㦸䯜䘰㺈㦸 䂘䯜䭥 㑐㺈䘾 㦸㼝䱡㺈 㤐㺈㽖㺈㠼䘾䰗
㚥㠼䭥 㼝䘾 㱸䯜㑐 㺈䦞㺈䲪㤐㼝㑐㺈䉼 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㺈 㑐䘾䲪㼝㤐䘾㦸䏚 㽖㺈䭥㼝㤐䯜㦸 㑐㺈㠼㑐㺈䰗
䯜䲪㑐㺈䘾
㤐㖕䲪䘰䘾㖕䲪䯜䲪䰗㺈㖕
㦸㐆㖕䭥㱸
㑐䪂㺈㦸㐆
㠹㖕䉼 䘾㖕 䯜 䭥㺈㪽䲪㺈㺈 㑐䂘㺈 㑐㐆㑐䜺㺈㤐䘾㺈䭥 䘾䂘㺈 㽖䯜㠼㐆㠱䯜㤐䘾㐆䲪㺈䲪 䂘䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䯜㠼䘾㼝㤐㼝䜺䯜䘾㺈䭥䉼 㱸㖕㐆㦸䭥 䘾䂘㺈 䂘㺈䯜䲪䘾㠦䲪䯜䘾㺈 䘾䲪䯜㤐䱡㺈䲪㑐 㼝㠼 䘾䂘㺈 䚢㐆䯜㠼䘾㐆㽖 㔕䯜䘾㤐䂘㺈㑐—㱸䂘㼝㤐䂘䉼 㼝㠱 䘾䂘㺈䏚 㤐㖕㐆㦸䭥 䘾䯜㦸䱡䉼 㱸㖕㐆㦸䭥 䘰㺈 㠱㼝㦸㼝㠼㪽 㠱㖕䲪 㺈㽖㖕䘾㼝㖕㠼䯜㦸 䭥䯜㽖䯜㪽㺈㑐 䯜㠼䭥 䲪㺈㪹㐆㺈㑐䘾㼝㠼㪽 䯜 㠼㺈㱸 㖕㱸㠼㺈䲪 㱸㼝䘾䂘 㠱㺈㱸㺈䲪 㖕䲪㪽䯜㑐㽖㑐 䜺㺈䲪 㤐䯜䜺㼝䘾䯜䰗
㠹䯜䲪䯜䂘 䂘䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 㽖䯜䭥㺈 㼝䘾䰗 㠹㦸㺈㺈䜺 䂘䯜䭥 㱸㖕㠼䉼 㺈㪑㼝䭥㺈㠼䘾㦸䏚䰗 䳠㺈䏚㠼䯜 㦸㼝䱡㺈㱸㼝㑐㺈䉼 㤐㐆䲪㦸㺈䭥 㑐㖕㽖㺈㱸䂘㺈䲪㺈 㼝㠼 䯜 䱡㠼㖕䘾 㖕㠱 䭥㐆㪑㺈䘾䉼 㽖㼝㑐㑐㼝㠼㪽 䘾䂘㺈 㺈㠼䘾㼝䲪㺈 䯜㠱㠱䯜㼝䲪 䘾䂘㺈 㱸䯜䏚 㖕㠼㺈 㽖㼝㪽䂘䘾 㑐㦸㺈㺈䜺 䘾䂘䲪㖕㐆㪽䂘 䯜 㑐㽖䯜㦸㦸 㺈䯜䲪䘾䂘㪹㐆䯜䱡㺈 㖕䲪 䯜 㽖㖕䭥㺈䲪䯜䘾㺈㦸䏚 㺈㠼䘾䂘㐆㑐㼝䯜㑐䘾㼝㤐 䯜䜺㖕㤐䯜㦸䏚䜺㑐㺈䰗
㠼䯜䭥
䭥㦸䭥㖕䘾㺈䲪㑐
㠼䘾㼝䰗䂘㪽㠼䯜䏚
䏚㖕㠼㦸
㼝㠱㠼㺈㠼㖕㤐㺈㤐䭥
㺈䂘䘾
䜺䘾㦸䯜㺈
㠼䭥㺈
䘾䲪㑐’㺈㺈䪂
㺈䘾䂘
䘾㑐䯜
㖕㠱
䂘㺈䘾
㥫䲪䯜㼝䯜
㑐䯜䏚
㦸䭥䘰㖕
䯜
䯜䘾
㠱㖕㠱
㠼㐆㖕㠱䭥
㺈㼝䜺㤐㺈
㠱䯜䲪
䯜䰗㖕䘾䘾䭥㼝㑐䲪㤐
䯜䉼㺈䘾䘰㦸
㼝䯜䯜㥫䲪
㼝䜺㦸䲪㺈㠱
㺈䂘䲪
䭥䲪㺈䘾䂘䯜㪽㐆
㖕䘾㠼
㼝㱸䘾䂘
㠼㼝
㖕㪽㠼䯜㽖
㤐㠼㪽㼝䘾䂘䯜㱸
㖕㠱
䭥㼝䭥
㚥㑐 㦸㖕㠼㪽 䯜㑐 䑯㐆㠼䯜 㱸䯜㑐 䂘䯜䜺䜺䏚䉼 㑐䯜㠱㺈䰗 㚥㠼䭥 䯜㑐 㦸㖕㠼㪽 䯜㑐 䘾䂘㺈 㑐䘾䲪䯜㠼㪽㺈䉼 㼝㽖䜺㖕㑐㑐㼝䘰㦸㺈 䘰㖕䏚 㱸䂘㖕 䂘䯜䭥 㠱㖕㦸䭥㺈䭥 䯜㦸㦸 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈㽖 㼝㠼䘾㖕 䂘㼝㑐 㖕䲪䘰㼝䘾 䱡㺈䜺䘾 㦸㖕㖕䱡㼝㠼㪽 䯜䘾 䂘㺈䲪 䭥䯜㐆㪽䂘䘾㺈䲪 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䘰㺈㱸㼝㦸䭥㺈䲪㺈䭥䉼 䂘㺈㦸䜺㦸㺈㑐㑐 㑐㖕㠱䘾㠼㺈㑐㑐—㥫䯜䲪㼝䯜 㱸㖕㐆㦸䭥 㦸㺈䘾 䘾䂘㺈 䲪㺈㑐䘾 䜺䯜㑐㑐䉼 㐆㠼䲪㺈㽖䯜䲪䱡㺈䭥 㐆䜺㖕㠼䉼 㦸㼝䱡㺈 㱸㺈䯜䘾䂘㺈䲪䰗
䂽䲪 㦸㼝䱡㺈 䘾䂘㺈 㠼㺈㼝㪽䂘䘰㖕䲪’㑐 䭥㖕㪽 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䱡㺈䜺䘾 䭥㼝㪽㪽㼝㠼㪽 㐆䜺 䘾䂘㺈 㪽䯜䲪䭥㺈㠼 䘰㐆䘾 㱸䯜㑐 䘾㖕㖕 㤐㐆䘾㺈 䘾㖕 㑐䂘㖕㖕䘾䰗
䘾䓫㐆
䲪㐆㑐㤐㼝䘾㖕㼝䏚
䰗㖕㦸䏚㦸㐆䭥
䘾䂘㺈
㖕㠱
㠼㑐㑐䍗䯜㺈䯜
㦸䭥㐆㤐㖕
㺈䂘䢾
䂘㼝䘾㦸㑐㪽
㺈㑐㺈
䯜㠼䭥
㼝䘾㦸䘾
㺈䂘㺈䘾䲪
㠼㠹㼝㠦㖕㖕䦙
㠼㼝
㼝䰗䘾
㠼㺈䱡㤐
㱸䏚䯜䰗䯜
䢾䂘㺈
㠱㖕
㺈䏚㺈
䘾㖕䭥㱸䲪䯜
㠱㦸㼝䱡㤐
㖕㖕䘾
䯜㽖’䠷㽖㑐
㱸㑐䯜
䭥㐆㺈㪽䯜䂘㦸
䰗㺈䂘䲪
䂘㠼㱸㺈
䲪䂘㺈
㺈䂘䯜䭥
㥫䯜䲪㼝䯜 㦸㼝㪑㺈䭥 䂘㺈䲪 㦸㼝㠱㺈 䘰䏚 䲪㺈䯜䭥㼝㠼㪽 䲪㖕㖕㽖㑐 䯜㠼䭥 䜺㺈㖕䜺㦸㺈’㑐 䘰㖕䭥㼝㺈㑐䉼 䯜㠼䭥 㑐䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐 䲪㺈䯜䭥㼝㠼㪽 䘾䂘㼝㑐 㖕㠼㺈 㠼㖕㱸䉼 䯜㠼䭥 㑐䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐—㤐㦸㺈䯜䲪㦸䏚䉼 㪹㐆㼝㺈䘾㦸䏚—㤐㐆䲪㼝㖕㐆㑐䰗
䑯㼝䱡㺈 㑐㖕㽖㺈㖕㠼㺈 㱸䯜䘾㤐䂘㼝㠼㪽 䯜 㠼䯜䘾㐆䲪㺈 䭥㖕㤐㐆㽖㺈㠼䘾䯜䲪䏚 䯜㠼䭥 䲪㺈䯜㦸㼝䬾㼝㠼㪽 䘾䂘㺈 㦸㼝㖕㠼㑐 㱸㺈䲪㺈 㠼㖕䘾䉼 㼝㠼 㠱䯜㤐䘾䉼 䜺㦸䯜䏚㼝㠼㪽䰗
㐆㪽䭥䭥㺈㠼
䯜㔶㺈㠼㦸㺈
䰗䲪䂘㺈
“䂽㼝䰗” 㚥 㠼㐆䭥㪽㺈 㖕㠱 䘾䂘㺈 㺈㦸䘰㖕㱸䉼 㑐䂘䯜䲪䜺 㺈㠼㖕㐆㪽䂘 䘾㖕 䘰㺈 䭥㺈㦸㼝䘰㺈䲪䯜䘾㺈䉼 㑐㖕㠱䘾 㺈㠼㖕㐆㪽䂘 䘾㖕 㪹㐆䯜㦸㼝㠱䏚 䯜㑐 㠱䲪㼝㺈㠼䭥㦸䏚䰗
㔶㺈㦸㺈㠼䯜’㑐 㽖㖕㐆䘾䂘 䜺㖕㼝㠼䘾㺈䭥—䯜㤐䘾㐆䯜㦸㦸䏚 䜺㖕㼝㠼䘾㺈䭥䉼 㦸㼝䜺㑐 䜺㐆䲪㑐㺈䭥 㠱㖕䲪㱸䯜䲪䭥 㦸㼝䱡㺈 䯜 㤐䂘㼝㦸䭥 㼝㠼䭥㼝㤐䯜䘾㼝㠼㪽 㑐㖕㽖㺈䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽 䲪㐆䭥㺈—䘾㖕㱸䯜䲪䭥 㚥㠼䯜㑐䘾䯜㑐㼝䯜䉼 㱸䂘㖕 㑐䯜䘾 䘾䂘䲪㺈㺈 㑐㺈䯜䘾㑐 䭥㖕㱸㠼䉼 㱸䲪䯜䜺䜺㺈䭥 㼝㠼 䯜 㱸䂘㼝䘾㺈 䭥䲪㺈㑐㑐䉼 䂘㖕㦸䭥㼝㠼㪽 䯜 㤐㐆䜺 㖕㠱 㤐㖕㠱㠱㺈㺈 㑐䂘㺈 䂘䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䭥䲪㐆㠼䱡䰗
㔕䂘䯜䘾’㑐 㱸䲪㖕㠼㪽 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䂘㺈䲪㣾
㔶㺈㦸㺈㠼䯜 䭥㼝䭥 㠼㖕䘾 㑐䯜䏚 㼝䘾 䯜㦸㖕㐆䭥䰗 㠹䂘㺈 䭥㼝䭥 㠼㖕䘾 㠼㺈㺈䭥 䘾㖕䰗
㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 㦸㖕㖕䱡㺈䭥䰗
䘾㖕㠼㺈䂘㑐
䘾㺈䂘
㠱䲪㖕
䂘䘾㺈
㺈㱸㺈䲪
㖕䘾㠼
䓫㐆䘾
䯜㱸㑐
㺈㑐䏚㺈
㼝㠼
䘾䢾䂘䯜
㑐䯜㱸
䂘㺈䢾
䯜㑐㱸
㺈䢾䂘
㑐䂘㺈
㺈䰗㠼㖕䜺
㼝䘾䰗
䲪㖕䭥㱸
䂘㺈䢾
㖕䯜㱸㠼㪽䰗㺈—㑐
䏚㖕䘰䭥
䭥䂘䯜㠼
䘾䂘㺈
㱸㑐䯜
䜺㐆㤐䰗
㠱㤐㺈㠱㖕㺈
㠼䏚㖕㦸
㐆䂘䲪䘾㪽䰗㼝䜺
㖕䲪㽖㖕䰗
㚥㑐㠼䯜㼝㑐䯜䘾䯜
䲪㐆䯜㖕䭥㠼
㠹䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐 㑐㖕㽖㺈㱸䂘㺈䲪㺈 㺈㦸㑐㺈䉼 㑐㖕㽖㺈㱸䂘㺈䲪㺈 䘰㺈䂘㼝㠼䭥 䂘㺈䲪 㖕㱸㠼 㠱䯜㤐㺈䉼 䯜㠼䭥 㱸䂘䯜䘾㺈㪑㺈䲪 㑐䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐 㦸㖕㖕䱡㼝㠼㪽 䯜䘾 䂘䯜䭥 㺈㽖䜺䘾㼝㺈䭥 䂘㺈䲪 㖕㐆䘾 㠱䲪㖕㽖 䘾䂘㺈 㼝㠼㑐㼝䭥㺈 㦸㼝䱡㺈 䯜 㽖㖕䲪䘾㼝㤐㼝䯜㠼 㱸㼝䘾䂘 䯜 㪑㺈㠼䭥㺈䘾䘾䯜 䯜㠼䭥 䯜 㪑㺈䲪䏚 㑐䂘䯜䲪䜺 㑐䜺㖕㖕㠼䰗 㠹䂘㺈 䂘䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䘾㖕㐆㤐䂘㺈䭥 䂘㺈䲪 㠱㖕㖕䭥䰗
㔶䯜䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䘰㦸㼝㠼䱡㺈䭥 䯜䘾 䘾䂘㺈 䲪㼝㪽䂘䘾 㼝㠼䘾㺈䲪㪑䯜㦸㑐䰗 㔶㺈䲪 䘰䲪㺈䯜䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽 㱸䯜㑐 㑐䂘䯜㦸㦸㖕㱸 㼝㠼 䯜 㱸䯜䏚 㖕㠼㦸䏚 㪑㼝㑐㼝䘰㦸㺈 䘾㖕 㑐㖕㽖㺈㖕㠼㺈 䘾䲪䯜㼝㠼㺈䭥 䘾㖕 㠼㖕䘾㼝㤐㺈 䘰䲪㺈䯜䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽䰗
䲪䯜㺈䘾䭥䉼㠼㼝
㺈㺈䲪䪂䘾
㠹㖕䦙㠦㖕㼝㠼
㤐㠼㼝㖕㺈䘾
㚥䭥㠼
䯜䂘䭥
㺈㼝䘾㖕㤐㠼
㺈䘰㺈㠼
䘰䰗㼝䂘䲪㺈㠼䘾㪽䯜
䘾㖕
䘾㼝
㟈㚥㚥䳠
䂘㱸㺈㠼
䭥㠼䯜
㖕䘾
䘾㑐䰗㖕䜺䭥㺈䜺
㠹䂘㺈 䭥㼝䭥 㠼㖕䘾 䯜㠼㑐㱸㺈䲪 㔶㺈㦸㺈㠼䯜䰗 㠹䂘㺈 㦸㖕㖕䱡㺈䭥 䘰䯜㤐䱡 䯜䘾 䪂㺈䘾㺈䲪 㼝㠼㑐䘾㺈䯜䭥—䪂㺈䘾㺈䲪䉼 㱸䂘㖕 㱸䯜㑐 㠼㖕㱸 㠱㺈㺈䭥㼝㠼㪽 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜 䯜 䜺㼝㺈㤐㺈 㖕㠱 㑐䘾㺈䯜䱡 㖕㠱㠱 䂘㼝㑐 㖕㱸㠼 㠱㖕䲪䱡 䘰㺈㤐䯜㐆㑐㺈 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜 䂘䯜䭥 㱸䂘㼝㠼㺈䭥䉼 䯜㠼䭥 䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐 䘾㺈䯜㑐㼝㠼㪽 䂘㺈䲪 䯜䘰㖕㐆䘾 䘰㺈㼝㠼㪽 䯜 䘰䯜䘰䏚䉼 䯜㠼䭥 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜 㱸䯜㑐 㦸䯜㐆㪽䂘㼝㠼㪽 㼝㠼 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䂘㺈㦸䜺㦸㺈㑐㑐䉼 㖕䜺㺈㠼㠦䘾䂘䲪㖕䯜䘾㺈䭥 㱸䯜䏚 㑐䂘㺈 䭥㼝䭥 㱸䂘㺈㠼 䂘㺈 㤐䂘㖕㑐㺈 䘾㖕 䘰㺈 㤐䂘䯜䲪㽖㼝㠼㪽 㖕㠼 䜺㐆䲪䜺㖕㑐㺈䉼 㱸䂘㼝㤐䂘䉼 䘾㖕 䘰㺈 㠱䯜㼝䲪䉼 㱸䯜㑐 㽖㖕㑐䘾 䭥䯜䏚㑐—䯜㠼䭥 㠹㖕㖕㠦䦙㼝㠼 㑐䯜㱸 㼝䘾䰗
㠹䯜㱸 䂘㼝㽖 㪽㦸䯜㠼㤐㺈 䯜䘾 㚥㠼䯜㑐䘾䯜㑐㼝䯜䰗
䰗䘾㼝
㠱㖕
㱸䯜䘾㤐㠼㼝㪽䂘
䏚㐆㖕
㺈㱸㺈䲪
㖕㠱䲪
㚥
㼝䚢㐆䰗䱡㤐
㠼䘾㖕
㼝㑐㽖㑐
㖕㐆㱸䭥㦸
䘾㼝
㠹㖕
㦸㤐䱡㠱㼝
䘾䂘㺈
䰗㺈䏚㺈
㪹㼝䱡㤐㐆
㐆䏚㖕
㼝㠱
䑯㼝䱡㺈 䯜 㪹㐆㼝㤐䱡 㼝㠼㪑㺈㠼䘾㖕䲪䏚 㤐䂘㺈㤐䱡 㖕㠼 䘾䂘㺈 㽖㺈䲪㤐䂘䯜㠼䭥㼝㑐㺈䉼 㽖䯜䱡㼝㠼㪽 㑐㐆䲪㺈 㠼㖕䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽 䂘䯜䭥 䘰㺈㺈㠼 䭥䯜㽖䯜㪽㺈䭥 㼝㠼 䘾䲪䯜㠼㑐㼝䘾䰗
䢾䂘㺈㠼 䘰䯜㤐䱡 䘾㖕 䳠㺈䘰㺈㤐㤐䯜䰗 䓫䯜㤐䱡 䘾㖕 䘾䂘㺈 㑐䘾㺈䯜䱡 䯜㠼䭥 䘾䂘㺈 䘰䲪㺈䯜䱡㠱䯜㑐䘾 䂘㺈 㱸䯜㑐 㖕䲪㤐䂘㺈㑐䘾䲪䯜䘾㼝㠼㪽 㱸㼝䘾䂘 㤐䯜㑐㐆䯜㦸 㪽㺈㠼㼝㐆㑐—䂘䯜㪑㼝㠼㪽 䭥㺈㤐㼝䭥㺈䭥䉼 㑐㖕㽖㺈㱸䂘㺈䲪㺈 㼝㠼 䂘㼝㑐 㑐䂘㖕䲪䘾 䯜㠼䭥 㖕䜺㺈䲪䯜䘾㼝㤐 㦸㼝㠱㺈䉼 䘾䂘䯜䘾 䘾䯜䱡㼝㠼㪽 㤐䯜䲪㺈 㖕㠱 䜺㺈㖕䜺㦸㺈 㱸䯜㑐 䘾䂘㺈 㤐㦸㖕㑐㺈㑐䘾 䘾䂘㼝㠼㪽 䘾㖕 䜺䲪䯜䏚㺈䲪 䂘㺈 㱸㖕㐆㦸䭥 䜺㺈䲪㽖㼝䘾 䂘㼝㽖㑐㺈㦸㠱䰗
䘰䯜㠱䲪㑐䱡䯜䘾㺈
㑐㖕㑐㦸㐆
㺈㖕䘰䲪㺈㠱
㚥䉼㠼䭥
㺈㼝䲪䘾䂘
䯜㱸㑐
䯜䲪㪽䯜䲪㼝㺈㠼㠼㪽䲪
䭥䰗䯜䲪㤐㼝䰗㖕
䂘䘾㠼㪽㼝
䘾㺈䂘
㪽䯜㦸㼝㤐㦸㠼
䘾䏚䯜㦸䉼䜺㠼㺈䜺䯜䲪
㤐㺈㑐㑐㠼㺈䭥㦸㠦䘾㤐㖕㑐㖕
䘾㼝
䭥䯜㠼
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