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Show 102 arranged and glued twenty or so reproductions of medieval paintings which she had glazed with shellac-everything was swept from the old home into the new, where different rooms with different shadows and light promised different and unforeseen combinations. The castanets and wicker-covered wine bottle went next to the fireplace, the clear blue jug with the gilded rose leaning out of it went beside the bureau in the bedroom. Lorin, who did not approve of most of her collection, as a rule kept off to one side during each move, interfering only to the extent of reserving-usually by standing in one place and not moving-some small nook for his easel, his paint case, his table, his bulging portfolios and the unwieldy stack of canvases that followed them everywhere. If he was going to humor her impulses to find congenial surroundings, she was going to respect his need for continuity. Besides, he didn't much like her friends. They stepped around him, carrying boxes, and talked to him as though they were his friends too, but he felt tolerated. When they were gone he came out of the room he had saved (in this case a step-down screened porch), rubbing his hands, and gave her a peck on the cheek just as she turned her head away, and he knew he had been a bad sport. He avoided her the rest of the day, humming as he puttered around his tubes and brushes, and smiled mysteriously at her when they met in doorways. He didn't mind this new place, just as he had not minded the others. It was dingy and the shower faucet hissed, but it was large, and from the front room you had a good view of the weeds ripening along the base of a cyclone fence across the street, beyond which rolled endless lawn with tombstones grouped in small clusters, and a line of trees on a distant edge, and beyond the trees, on clear days, the gentle blue peaks of the Santa Monica Mountains. He drove her into the Village each morning and |