Her father was holding her waist, smiling. Their conversation hung. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment.
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