A horse’s head, not a thoroughbred, but an ordinary Russian bay mare. A vulnerable, gentle head.
But it can express despair that is not less than human: What’s happened to me? Where have I got to? How many deaths I have seen!—and here I am now dying myself.

They didn’t remove her collar. Nor did they loosen it.
She is utterly exhausted, her legs barely supporting her. She hasn’t been fed, nor unharnessed, only flogged—’Tull! Save us!’ She broke free, tearing her traces. She twitches her ears, wanders aimlessly, her legs sinking in the squelching
slush.