’ ‘Of what use to be ladylike when I cannot be a lady?’ ‘None of that. Sheppard. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it.
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