"Did you write it?" "No. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. Near the door stood a pile of deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. .
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