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"Merde," shouted ato raise his voice above the din of conversation "This stuff is shit Can you believe Clara Morrow got a solo show?"

The wo skirt and a tight T-shirt with scarves wrapped around her neck and shoulders Her earrings were hoops and each of her fingers held rings

In another place and tinized for what she was A mildly successful artist

Beside her her husband, also an artist and dressed in cords and a worn jacket with a rakish scarf at the neck, turned back to the painting

"Dreadful"

"Poor Clara," agreed his wife "The critics’ll savage her"

Jean Guy Beauvoir, as standing beside the two artists, his back to the painting, turned to glance at it

On the wall aest piece Three wo

They looked at each other, and touched each other, holding each other’s hands, or gripping an arh, it was to each other they turned As they equally would if so terrible had happened As they naturally would whatever happened

More than friendship,ached of intimacy

Jean Guy quickly turned his back on it Unable to look He scanned the rooain

"Look at the the portrait "Not very attractive"

Annie Ga next to her husband, David They were listening to an older man David looked distracted, disinterested But Annie’s eyes were bright Taking it in Fascinated

Beauvoir felt a flash of jealousy, wanting her to look at him that way

Here, Beauvoir’s ," said the ly at Clara’s portrait of the three old woht as well paint clowns"