The change—my liege!—what change?
ALTOUM
In Turandot,
My daughter. Always till that time her mind
Was tender-mannered as her face is fair.
Till then, there was no creature living whom
She would have harmed, even with a thought of pain—
Least of all those who loved her. But that night,
Groping by moonlight from her rose garden
Into my war tent, half distractedly