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Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. Stop it. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man. 256 Lucy chose her words carefully. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken. So I come suppliant. ". The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. “That’s what we narcs have to do.
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