CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DIMINUTION
Ginny’s suitcase was packed. Three days before, Ginny had lugged it downstairs and deposited it in the hall not two strides from the front door. Whenever she passed it by Harriet felt ragged. She took pride in considering herself an upright woman of much fortitude and here she was, all asunder, pacing the studio floor.
Before the sun had tickled the day, she had tidied her bench and collated all her brushes into bristle, sable and synthetic, and round, pointed, flat, filbert and fan. And her paint: Acrylic with acrylic and gouache with gouache. Then she had swept the floor and rolled up the scatter rugs, taking them outside for a thorough beating. She had even thought of cleaning the windows then changed her mind. Instead she stacked her nine artworks, face to
