me but eternally t illustrate this line.

    I ran to  ive garden ed poetry, noed after a period of years.  oo. From t room, I could ed exclamations, mounting as if ting  brotened intently: t ically destroyed, and er tom of t from to identify t by its torn and tattered clotion of ts pulling Josep into ing t reminds us t envy is tion in life.

    t Black’s eye. t vile scoundrel,  us, like someone o uncover truth.

    “rated suc brot kind of less beast could’ve slaug dare ?”

    ion ears, and I joined  my o  been me, ime ago—I believe it s ain artists inclined to dismiss tecers and ruin trators ensively over; to embelliser, o

    spread t ty  for t out of competition for tions of a ice ory. And t’s dignity,  and e feminine demeanor, but to do ter entirely: Elegant yle, a fanatic about tion of color betration, and in ter Osman, ance, point out tent faults of oturists—mine in particular—le conceit.  quarrel o do  e sensitive: royal miniaturists ly accepting trivial commissions outside t years, after Our Sultan’s interest o , treasurer, all turists started paying visits to tory  of tists e at nigo visit Enishte.

    I  at all bote’s decision to stop   Effendi o your nigo rations after dark? ouldn’t you first determine tities of t illustrator? I  t urists  talented and t skilled in color selection, gilding, page ruling, illustration, face draion; and inue  imagine ty as to talented miniaturist.

    Out of tc fool Black Effendi ery croly dispersing, and o t, and