"
She opened a large portfolio covered with green-veined black
paper and yanked out a dozen unframed pastels and wash-drawings
which she scornfully tossed on the bed, saying, as she pointed to
a mass of Marseilles roofs:
"Do you see this sketch? The only good thing about it is the
thing that last art editor, that red-headed youth, probably
didn't like. Don't you hate red hair? You see these
ridiculous glaring purple shadows under the _clocher?_"
She stared down at the picture interestedly, forgetting him,
pinching her chin thoughtfully, while she murmured: "They're
rather nice. Rather good. Rather good."
Then, quickly twisting her shoulders about, she poured out:
"But look at this. Consider this arch. It's miserably out of
drawing. And see how I've faked this figure? It isn't a real
person at all. Don't you notice how I've juggled with this
stairway? Why, my dear man, every bit of the drawing in this
thing would disgrace a seventh-grade drawing-class in Dos
Puentes. And regard the bunch of lombardies in this other
picture.
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