It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. ‘You know?’ ‘Come, come, Melusine. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. "You who are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears.
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