” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. " "That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. People always rejoice at the misfortunes of others—never at their own! The droll dogs! how they must have enjoyed it!—ha! ha!" "I dare say they did. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse.
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