The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged. The truth was impossible, indecent. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything.
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