All these admissions were indubitably plausible, for his
paintings seemed the unmistakable handiwork of an irresponsible, hard-
fisted motor mechanic.
Maggie shifted to her other foot and glanced casually at the canvases
which leaned against the walls of the shabby studio. There was the
Duchess: incredibly old, the face a web of wrinkles, the lips indrawn
over toothless and shrunken gums, the nose a thin, curved beak, the
eyes deep-set, gleaming, inscrutable, watching; and drawn tight over
the hair--even Maggie did not know whether that hair was a wig or the
Duchess's--the faded Oriental shawl which was fastened beneath her
chin and which fell over her thin, bent chest. There was O'Flaherty,
the good-natured policeman on the beat. There was the old watchmaker
next door. There was Black Hurley, the notorious gang leader, who
sometimes swaggered into the district like a dirty and evil feudal
lord. There was a Jewish pushcart peddler, white-bearded and skull-
capped. There was an Italian mother sitting on the curb, her feet in
the gutter, smiling down at the baby that was hungrily suckling at her
milk-heavy breast. And so on, and so on. Just the ordinary,
uninteresting things Maggie saw around the block. There was not a
single pretty picture in the lot.
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