“Look here,” a voice whispered. It was a voice like broken glass. The queen of beggars went for a walk.
Zainab froze. “Aminah?”
Her sister invaded her personal space; the scent of expensive rose water was suffocating and stifling. “You sound pathetic, Zainab. Really. To think you traded a mansion for a mud hut and a man who smells like sewers.”
“I’m happy,” Zainab said, her voice trembling but confident. He treats me like I’m gold. Something our father never understood.
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Aminah laughed, a high, high-pitched laugh that startled a nearby crow. “Gold? Oh, you poor, naive blind man. Do you think he’s a beggar because he’s poor? Do you think this is a tragic love story?”
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