But he wrote on. 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. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. “I’ll go. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love. “Oh goody.
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