But she was only able to save a corner of the letter. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Burn your palette and your easel. "No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch.
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