Young Writer:
At this point in the story, the old man fell silent and pushed away his saddle of lamb. His eyes went blank as two stones. I could see he was in distress. "Are you ill, Mr. Mustafa?" I finally asked.
Mr. Moustafa:
Oh dear me, no.
Young Writer:
He said.
Mr. Moustafa:
It's only that I don't know how to proceed.
Young Writer:
He was crying!
Mr. Moustafa:
You see, I never speak of Agatha, because even at the thought of her name I'm unable to control my emotions.
[wipes the tears]
Mr. Moustafa:
Well, I suppose there's no way around it. You see, she saved us.
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05/03/2025 alle ore 09:09
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