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He says it’s the goddess’ gift first, and then his own since he was the one who made me from the marble.
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But it does seem foolish that he didn’t think it through, how I could not both live and still be a statue. I have only been born for eleven years, and even I know that.
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“The color is perfect,” he said, “look.” And he held up the mirror so I could see. “You make the rarest canvas, love.”
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