Wapun Meadow the lambs were screaming

As he reaches out to her, Clarice has fallen into her reverie. When physical contact occurs, she withdraws and snaps at the open air, her eyes wild, electric—
xxxxDO
xxxxxNOT
xxxxxxTOUCH
xxxxHer being expressed this, foreleg pulling to her chest, eyes narrowing, revolted, until the expression melts, softens, and she reaches out to him, though never bridges the divide from open air to touch. We do not like it, being touched. She withdraws, ears swiveling atop her head, refusing to look away. His question causes her to draw within herself for an instant, and then she returns to him, Clarice again. They are quiet, she murmurs mournfully.
xxxxShe was theirs. His by blood, theirs by spirit and soul and divine will. But she was more than a prophet and a puppet. There was purpose. We cannot say.