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. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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