It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. His heart beat wildly and he was afraid lest the strain be too much; but the girl shook her head and smiled and pointed to the top of the mountain. David Courtlaw.
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