It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. I am no one, Gérard.
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