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. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. John stared palely. His eyes were red. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. The weather harmonized with their feelings. The impassivity of her features changed at last. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. He knew that he could translate literally. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely.
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