‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. 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. Then Capes’ footsteps approached. He was in the house with his mother. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks.
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