He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. ‘There is no question of a dispute. I am quite sure that I do not know you. Burn your palette and your easel. Managers and accountants are always shifting about, so he tells me. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her.
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