She fled. Her efforts were vain. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. "I'll fetch it. But they were too late. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Pretty good stuff, some of it. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening.
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