Yemsiratch had learned, to her chagrin, that most of the “artists” that he introduced her to were mere wolves, if you will, in sheep’s clothing. That their knowledge of souls and beauty was no better than the average Joe’s [or Yohannes, as it were]. And that, when it comes to being versed on literature, language, and poetry [beauty and truth, truth beauty; on stopping for death, or by woods that are lovely, dark, and deep; on what happens to a dream-deferred or what went down when a priest and Satan met in the isolated Lebanese village of Annina], her “Encarta”-gleamed knowledge was much more
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