n’s eyes assumed t in pleasure. I praised ter at lengtfelt emotion, noohe blind.

    oucrengto pass to me. I, again, t of Sed me at home.

    Standing still t ime, pages opened before us, it y igued us t ing. e’d become embarrassed of eacher.

    “ do?” he asked again.

    I ain t tc, I turned my s and left, but kept my eyes trained attentively on Master Osman. as ruly blind or o convince t  some untalented and incompetent old masters from So curry respect and to prevent otioning their failures.

    “I o die here,” he said.

    “My great master, my dear sir,” I fa on painting but on t, not on ters but on imitators of tand  it brings tears to my eyes. Yet it is also your duty to protect your master illustrators from tell me, urist  horse?”

    “Olive.”

    I o be surprised.

    .

    “But I’m also certain t Olive  te or unfortunate Elegant Effendi,”  Olive dre bound to ters, imately tyles of  and ice genealogy stretco Samarkand. No ask me, ” ered trils in t Olive dreioned  times a detail—ttaco a tree—can be preserved in memory for generations, passing from master to apprentice, and yet mig manifest on to ter or on account of ticular tastes and  dear Olive, in ly from ters  ever being able to forget it. t t te’s book is a cruel trick of Alla all of us taken ters of  as our models? Just like turkmen illustrators for  one ures, didn’t erpieces of  ed pictures? e are all ted admirers. Nouris art is t of Biing t are to t, murder poor Elegant Effendi, o