“No.” Lisa’s voice was soft as worn silk. “They come with magnifying glasses. With infrared cameras. With theories. They come to solve me.”
A snort came from the far wall. Théodore Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa —a tangle of desperate, dying men—could not help itself. “Solve you? They don’t even look at us. They shuffle past my dead and my dying to squint at your eyebrow.” Mona Lisa Smile
Lisa paused. The gallery held its breath. Mona Lisa Smile
