“I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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