"If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “Okay. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. ” “And the people?” Brendon asked. "Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Ed.
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