Mariam stayed quiet. Throats were cleared. “She does,” a female voice said from down the table.
“Actually,” the mullah said, “she herself has to answer. And she should wait until I ask three times.”
“The point is, he's seeking her, not the other way around.”
He asked the question two more times. When Mariam didn't answer, he asked it once more, this time more forcefully.
Mariam could feel Jalil beside her shifting on his seat, could sense feet crossing and uncrossing beneath the table.
There was more throat clearing. A small, white hand reached out and flicked a bit of dust off the table.
“Mariam,” Jalil whispered. “Yes,” she said shakily.
A mirror was passed beneath the veil. In it, Mariam saw her own face first, the archless, unshapely eyebrows, the flat hair,
the eyes, mirthless green and set so closely together that one might mistake her for being cross eyed.
Her skin was coarse and had a dull, spotty appearance. She thought her brow too wide, the chin too narrow, the lips too thin.
The overall impression was of a long face, a triangular face, a bit houndlike.
And yet Mariam saw that, oddly enough, the whole of these unmemorable parts
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