Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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