A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. ” She hesitated. ” She stopped, and then suggested: “I wonder—I should love—if it was anything I said. All she had found was the love of this dog. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. I'll think no more about her. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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