It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. A. . " "Is she alive?" repeated the widow. Hollo rumbled in his throat. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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