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Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman.
A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing, Mariam. It isn’t like a mother’s womb. It won’t bleed, it won’t stretch to make room for you.
“You know.” “Know what?” “That I only have eyes for you.”
“I’ll follow you to the end of the world, Laila.”
But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila’s own heart, where she shines with the bursting radiance of a thousand suns.
