There are so many ways that Yehudit could dispute that they're not the same. They're not. That's what she's always been told -- she's not like them. In fact, she isn't like most people who dwell in the dust and squalor, but for entirely different reasons.

She stares at the crown Atem's offering to her, as if she might explode if she were to touch it. Her head shakes slightly.

"No, I... I can't," she presses, her eyes welling. "I am... different. I am strange. People say I tell them things that I should not know."

What a pitiable sight she must be, and before a prince no less.