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. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. Somehow. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. Lad, I admire you even in your folly.
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