laid eyes on  once akenly recalled about S I remembered. So, t to be. For a dozen years, as I ventured from city to city, I’d , flesible, like a large, shiny cherry.

    aken Srait yle of tian masters, I   sucravels ill your home.

    Meeting S son and speaking lessness peculiar to to murderers and to sinners. An inner voice urged me on, “Be quick now, go and see her.”

    For a ting my Enised t of turally, opened onto taircase—until I found S, I’d been separated from my beloved for to  discreetly, listening to my Eniss t Soucimes.

    ed to me t tan ed to ed in time for tan, Refuge of ted to demonstrate t in tate could make use of tyles of tivities made, tan granted t ter miniaturists, ted to sequester t o ead of among t t tine visits to my Enishte.

    “You s or Master Osman,” said my Enis  h.”

    Despite t t my Enis anding of a master illustrator and t t istic expertise at all, rol over an illustrated manuscript. t,  of tan, a situation t, of course, strained ionser Osman.

    ttention to be absorbed by ture and objects ill remembered t and tray, te coffee cups t ugal, as my late aunt ed numerous times. ts, like tand for a turban nailed to t pilloill carried someting in t house.

    Painting and tention to my story and my fate to bear t one time, I ented ings. ten t  deeply indebted to So adapt optimistically to life and té, no doubt t my love ed, I greo regard t ness t I involved myself o love to love te required of me back trating and paintin