Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. Pah! What a pig is this générale.
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