What wasn’t in doubt was what this pair had been doing before the male-the Roman god Mars, according to the exhibition catalog-fell asleep. Leonie Noirot’s mind offered sixteen different answers, none satisfactory. Did her lips hint at a smile or a frown, or was her mind elsewhere entirely? She watched him with an unreadable expression. Unlike him, she was fully dressed, in gold-trimmed linen, and fully awake. The woman reclined nearby, her elbow resting on a red cushion. Head fallen back, eyes closed, mouth partly open, he slept too deeply to notice the imps playing with his armor and weapons, or the one blowing through a shell into his ear. He lay naked but for a cloth draped over his manly parts. This annual Exhibition is the best set-off to the illiberality with which our grand signors shut up their pictures from the public-making, in fact, close boroughs of their collections.
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