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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 35 I realized then and there that I had been right about Miss Larkin. And wrong, too. Mr. Morris was painting a picture of her, but she wasn't posing in her altogether. Now don't start thinking that I had been letting my fanciful brain get too far ahead of itself. I know thinking Miss Larkin would agree to pose in her altogether might seem far fetched, especially about a woman teaching at a backwater school like Willard Middle. But everyone holds the same mind about Miss Larkin. Having gone off to college in California, Miss Larkin is filled with what most folks would call liberated ideas. She never eats meat or eggs. She's prone to wearing peculiar fashions. And she's still not married. So you can understand why I might give credence to the notion of her allowing Mr. Morris to paint her in her altogether. ^ v ^ (^^ All I could see of Mr. Morris was what showed beneath his easel-old Levis and paint splattered boots. Perched on Mr. Morris easel was a humongous stretched canvas. It looked to be as tall as Colby on tiptoes. The canvas began to rock and I knew Mr. Morris had started painting again. I could hear a faint whistle and I strained to listen, but Mr. Morris wasn't so much whistling as he was pushing air between his lips like you do when you're busy, but thinking about something else. I looked about the room and took stock of the clutter. You name it and Mr. Morris had it, and all of it worn out and faded. Old chairs and desks, china bowls and vases, rusty milk cans, grey buckets, a brown saddle, old books, porcelain dolls, a violin, wooden tools, blankets and throws . . . I couldn't begin to count all the stuff. I figured most were props Mr. Morris used when he painted. I loved the room though. It was warm and bright and smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Sunlight slanted down through high windows and the air stirred with dancing |