But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. . ‘You said she was beautiful.
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