Art, my dear boy, said Mr Askern, especially sacred art, needs tradition. Tradition is the bedrock of our art.
He broke off, staring at the woman in front of him. Her face seemed to lose all definition and her skin turned an unnatural shade of putty-coloured grey. Art, she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. Art! Oh my God, art!
She swayed dangerously. Jack leapt forward, catching her as she fell.
Jack Haldean.
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