Jean Beraud Pont des arts painting

Jean Beraud Pont des arts paintingJean Beraud Boulevard des capucines paintingHenri Rousseau The Snake Charmer painting
don’t want to sleep,” Mary said; she sipped at her whiskey and took plenty of the water. “I’ve got to learn how it happened.”
“Aunt Hannah,” Andrew asked quietly, motioning towards the bottle.
“Please.”
While he broke ice and brought glasses and a pitcher of water, none of them spoke; Mary sat in a distorted kind of helplessness at once meek and curiously sullen, waiting. Months later, seeing a horse which had fallen in the street, Andrew was to remember her; and he was to remember it wasn’t drunkenness, either. It was just the flat of the hand of Death.
“Let me pour my own,” Mary said. “Because,” she added with deliberation while she poured, “I want it just as strong as I can stand it.” She tasted the dark drink, added a little more whiskey, tasted again, and put the bottle aside. Hannah watched her with acute concern, thinking, if she gets drunk tonight, and if her mother sees her drunk, she’ll half die of shame, and thinking, nonsense. It’s the most sensible thing she could do.
“Drink it very slowly, Mary,” Andrew said gently. “You aren’t used to it.”