It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. No; she'd never go back. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy.
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