She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. I don’t. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. What!— you know so little of that child? She ran away from you. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ’ Even as they watched, a shadow passed across one of the apertures.
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