I told her it was the end. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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. These were seated in an imperfect semicircle about a very copper-adorned fireplace, surmounted by a carved wood inscription: “DO IT NOW. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished.
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