“I suppose I cannot hope that the painting we seek is this size?” “It is not.” “Of course not.” He grumbled. “Hawkins does nothing in half measures.” “Perhaps it is my beauty that cannot be contained in such small proportions,” she said. He snapped his gaze to her. “The darkness has brought out your sharp wit.” She tilted her head, then turned away, moving toward the dais. “Perhaps it is my own panic that has done it.” Whatever it was, he did not wish it gone.
