In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. He lost control of the machine. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this.
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