“Whyever shouldn’t he?” Sam said. “He’s Arsène Courbet,” the woman had said, as if it were obvious. “He only works on canvases that will be displayed in the right places. Even if you could afford him.” Sam was a little offended. “And how do you know I’m not such a canvas?” The woman had just shrugged. “I haven’t heard of you, for one thing. Your dress is démodé—too structured, you can’t see the natural body—you’re wearing a Catholic saint medal, which is probably why, and you’re definitely not French. By which I mean stop trying to speak the language, it’s embarrassing, I’m embarrassed for
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