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. “I will tell you when to stop. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. She did not see Sebastian turn towards the boy and his family, but every hair on the back of her neck stood up rigidly. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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