\" 66 She commented as more doors slammed. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. . Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. 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. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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