I don't threaten idly, as you know. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. 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. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer.
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