It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. Her heart failed her and her resolution became water.
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