It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. The Ragged Edge. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
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