[The sun rises. Nastenka runs to address the horizon.]
Have mercy, rosy-fingered Dawn! Have mercy on me, o rising golden Sun!
And you are…?
Wait 'til I'm done knitting these stockings! Otherwise I'll be punished severely. Stepmother said she would tear off my braid.
[beeps] This is the Sun. Your call is very important to us, but due to unusually high call volume…
[The sun obligingly reverses itself and sinks below the horizon.]
Oh, the world's thrown into chaos -- earthquakes, floods -- but that's fine; you knit your sock.
. . .
Some day you'll return the favor...
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