Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. She said that in the note. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Fell to sin, did Martha. I'll tell you what.
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