Michelle was too polite to put it into words. 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. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way.
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