A little awkward gait, inherent, probably, to many pregnant women, Doni walked slowly along the shore of a calm, silvery sea, covered up from above like a bedspread, whitish fog. Sometimes she bent to pick up a shell or a stone from the sand. And, having made out, with careless ease again threw in water. Lazy waves barely licked the edge of the shore. But this was not always the case, reminded of this were lumps of algae thrown on the shore and piles of broken shells. Doni picked up a smooth matte pebble, it was green.