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“You’re awful,” he said, with conviction. “Why do you ask me to come and stay here? Why do you tell me you'd like me to paint your portrait?”

“For the simple reasons that I like you—at least, when you’re in a good temper—and that I think you’re a good painter.”

“For the simple reason”—Gombauld mimicked her voice—“that you want me to make love to you and, when I do, to have the amusement of running away.”

Anne threw back her head and laughed. “So you think it amuses me to have to evade your advances! So like a man! If you only knew how gross and awful and boring men are when they try to make love and you don’t want them to make love! If you could only see yourselves through our eyes!”

Gombauld picked up his palette and brushes and attacked his canvas with the ardour of irritation. “I suppose you'll be saying next that you didn’t start the game, that it was I who made the first advances, and that you were the innocent victim who sat still and never did anything that could invite or allure me on.”

“So like a man again!” said Anne,