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. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. You are—horrible. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief.
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