His friendship seemed a thing worth having. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. He was in the house with his mother. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. Best assured of that. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill.
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