He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. “Now, there, there. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. She is my only family. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it.
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