151963Seven-year-old Anton Gallimard tore through the salon of his expansive house waving a sheet of paper over his head.
“Do not run in this house!” his father shouted. “Go back!”
Anton held up his paper. “Papa, I want to show you—”
“Go back!”
The boy’s head drooped. He turned and walked out of the room and back down the corridor, lined with paintings and etchings in gilt frames, many of great value. He sighed and turned back around, taking another look at his drawing. It was good, wasn’t it? He had thought so, but now he was not sure. Maybe he shouldn’t show it to Papa after all.
“Anton!” his father’s voice boomed.
Slowly the boy made his way down the corridor, the sheet of paper flapping against his legs. He didn’t want to show it now. He knew it was dreadful, and his father was o
