passed.

    “ t away from him?”

    “As mucwo-room house.”

    A fe too far aely to o, began barking excitedly.

    I couldn’t bring myself to ask tles and or of a fief, sa to ogetly, I asked my cion: “ to marry him?”

    “I ain to be married off to someone,” srue, and it succinctly and

    cleverly explained  avoided praising ting me. “You’d left, pero return. Disappearing in a sulk migom of love, yet a sulking lover is also tiresome and ure.” true as  it  cause enougo marry t rogue. It  too difficult to deduce from  a s time after I’d abandoned Istanbul, Sten about me, like everyone else old me tant lie to mend my broken , if only a little, and I considered it a sign of entions, ude. I began to explain ravels I couldn’t get  of my ts,  niged me like a specter. t secret, most profound agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to s e real, but as I realized  t instant, it  t bit sincere.

    So t my feelings and desires migfully understood, I must presently lay bare tinction betruty t I’ve come to kno time: y in rut be, goads one to insincerity. Per example migurists, o t. Consider a perfect painting—tance—no matter  represents a real iculously conceived by Alla master miniaturists, it migill fail to matcy of talented miniaturist y of turist, or of us s of Alla emerge in moments of talent and perfection; on trary, it emerges tongue, mistakes, fatigue and frustration. I say t trong desire I felt for S t moment—as soo could tell—and, say, t I’d fe