The painted scene was of a bench. Behind it, the reservoir scintillated with morning sun, and the conch-like silhouette of the Fountain spiraled upward, jets of steam whistling out in white spokes. It was an evocative scene, if not an unusual style. But it was not the style or backdrop that struck him now. Sitting on the bench in the near foreground was a woman. Her form had been captured in just a few strokes, yet Senlin couldn’t mistake her figure or the crimson-colored helmet. The humiliated painter had finally risen and was brushing the street dust from his knees when Senlin hooked his arm
...more
