He flung it back against the wall angrily -- what
did he mean by leaving it there? -- but his movement caused it
to fall, face downwards, on the ground. No mater whose the
picture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he
raised it; but then curiosity got the better of him.
He thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so he
brought it along and set it on the easel. Then he stood back
in order to see it at his ease.
He gave a gasp. It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa,
with one arm beneath her head and the other along her body;
one knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out.
The pose was classic. Stroeve's head swam. It was Blanche.
Grief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he cried
out hoarsely; he was inarticulate; he clenched his fists and
raised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. He screamed
at the top of his voice. He was beside himself. He could not
bear it. That was too much. He looked round wildly for some
instrument; he wanted to hack the picture to pieces; it should
not exist another minute. He could see nothing that would
serve his purpose; he rummaged about his painting things;
somehow he could not find a thing; he was frantic.
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