So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. "Is there anything wrong with it?" "Wrong? Why, you have been imposed upon somewhere. ” The lady in black satin appeared undecided. ” Anna smiled very faintly. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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