” Lucy coolly marveled as she studied the girl’s face, belly swollen from pregnancy. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Farhat who was stranded on a desolate roadside until one fateful day he passed the traveling caravan of the beautiful princess Anoush.
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