9. The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “Dear John,” she whispered. “Not really. Now lend me your own hand. “Happened! Oh, many things,” she declared indolently.
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