"Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. Wood was once a favourite of yours. Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. Little by little, she stopped hating him. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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