It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. He still watched her and questioned her. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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