The realization that someone had paid such attention to her face — her face — that someone had drawn her with such tenderness, had deemed her worthy of such meticulous effort and artistry, reduced her to meaningful silence. She and Theo gazed at the portrait as she gathered enough composure to speak. “I don’t even know what to say. It’s, umm . . .” She hesitated, fearful of flattering herself. “He did a beautiful job.” “Well, the artist simply drew what he saw, and what he saw — who he saw — is a work of art.”
