Bokelskere.no

The child is turning somersaults in her belly. Her face is hot as a coal and her legs throb and the swollen flesh in between them - the lips the child must soon part to get out - is a scalding sack of pain. Her mother would have known what to do about that, she would have known which leaves to mash to make a soothing poultice.
At the thought of her mother such misery overcomes her that she wants to kick somebody.