Lisa paused. The gallery held its breath.
Veronese’s Christ, mid-miracle, paused his wine-turning. “Pleasure. Beauty. A story.” Mona Lisa Smile
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.” Lisa paused
“It’s exhausting,” Lisa replied. But the corner of her mouth curled, just slightly. Mona Lisa Smile
The girl had wiped her nose on her sleeve. She had nodded once, as if receiving a reply. Then she had walked away, shoulders straighter.