what about the oil paintings?” he asked, nodding at a different series of canvases. “I don’t usually sell those.” Leo could see why. These paintings weren’t pretty in the least. Some were beautiful—there was a painting of what looked like Dartmoor, and another of an empty airfield. But they weren’t the sort of thing you’d hang over the sofa in the front parlor. There was also a painting of Blackthorn, its absurd Victorian dollhouse aesthetic twisted around so that it seemed to erupt from the ground like a mushroom. It was not a flattering view of the house, there was no question. But it was
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