By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. “I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle. While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. 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. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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