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Yashim inclined his head. The Validé was propped up on her sofa against a cloud of cushions, with the light as ever artfully arranged behind her head, a blind drawn across the little side-window, and a shawl across her legs. She walked rarely now, if at all; yet her figure was still graceful and the shadows on her face revealed the beauty she had once been and still, in a sense, remained. Her hands, a little lined, were white and delicate. Did the Validé not know that her son was dying at Besiktas?