She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. "I do," replied Kneebone. ” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour.
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