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Farukh was relieved to be back in Paris. Although the school was closed for two weeks, there were progress reports to write and paperwork to complete. Besides, he was worn out with the revolutionary zeal Dadash and the rest of Ayatollah’s men displayed -- and even more exhausted at trying to fit in with them.
Farukh pulled the papers out of his mail slot and went to his classroom. On top of the array of mimeographs was a small envelope addressed to him in an unfamiliar, but decidedly feminine, hand.
He slit the envelope carefully with a letter opener and read Catherine’s note of appreciation. Without stopping to think, he walked out of his classroom and down the hall to hers.
Catherine looked up as he entered.
“Monsieur Aria,” she smiled. “Thank you again for your generosity.” She stood up and stepped away from her desk. She wore a blue knit dress that emphasized the color of her eyes, and a pair of fashionable black leather boots.
“I ...” he paused and took a deep breath. “There is a city in my country called Isfahan. This perfume is named after it.”
He wanted to slap himself. Had anyone ever sounded so foolish?
She stepped a little closer. “I know. I looked it up.”