” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Put on that new dress—the one that's all white. They had been married for well over one hundred years. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor.
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