It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. A species of vertigo seized him. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She would end this sham with Manning. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. 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.
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