Marc Chagall The Three Candles

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met Hilta at the corner of the street. She was carrying her broomstick, the better to conduct an aerial search (with great stealth, however; the men of Ohulan were right behind Stay Long Ointment but drew the line at flying women). She was distraught.
"Not so much as a hint of her," said Granny.
"Have you been down to the river? She might have fallen in!"
"Then she'd have just fallen out again. Anyway, she can swim. I think she's hiding, drat her."
"What are we going to do?"
Granny gave her a withering look. "Hilta Goatfounder, I'm ashamed of you, acting like a cowin. Do I look worried?" "What for?"
"The screams or the bangs or the fireballs or whatever," Granny said vaguely. Hilta peered at her. "You do. A bit. Your lips have gone all thin." "I'm just angry, that's all." "Gypsies always come here for the fair, they might have taken her." Granny was prepared to believe anything about city folk but here she was on firmer ground. "Then they're a lot dafter than I'd give them credit for," she snapped. "Look, she's got the staff." "What good would that do?" said Hilta, who was close to tears. "I don't think you've understood anything I've told you," said Granny severely. "All we need to do is go back to your place and wait."
"That's heartless!"