Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. Come now, I am very glad to see you again so soon, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is. 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 felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. Surely he was imagining this picture. Mrs. I’ve wanted you—always. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. “It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. “It was great, Shari!” She replied the stars still in her eyes.
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