” He sidled toward her, but she recoiled from him, leaving him in possession of the hearth-rug. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. “Oh, much better. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes.
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