ABSTRACT
It is true, Tsune answered, smiles breaking out all over her face. It was an early morning in August, and when Tsune bathed Wakako on the veranda, she yelled with a robust, almost convulsive voice, eyes tightly closed from the shock of the first sunlight Tsune recalled this as she followed Wakako, determined never to let her die. It looks like a parachute, said a young man who passed by carrying a grease can and making a heavy rapping noise with his cedar clogs. In red flames it turned red; in flickering blue flames that burned horses and men, it shone coldly. The bodies, which had just breathed their last, were still soft and the flesh had an elasticity which was resilient to Wakako's touch. Apparently, it had been a stroke of luck that Wakako had sought shelter from the light behind a large pillar a second before the explosion.
