It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. The knight stood upon his defence; but he would unquestionably have been torn in pieces by the savage hounds, if a shower of oaths, seconded by a vigorous application of kicks and blows from their master, had not driven them growling off. Then, there shall be laid upon your body as much iron, or stone as you can bear, and more. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”.
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