She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. A brief calm succeeded. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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