[ Oh.

No. Now she recognizes the voice. But which one? After him, she can't be sure.

And in truth, Clea does not know which Renoir she hopes for before she opens her eyes: The one that hates her for justifiable reasons or the one that will abandon her. Either way, they will disappoint her, but at least the false one is honest. So when she opens one of her eyes and spots the scar across his face, she lets out the very smallest sound of relief.

Not real. ]

I would respect it if it were vulgar. As you say, you might convey something. This place walks up to the edge of saying something and turns around without committing. It suffers in its attempts to be palatable rather than fully committing to its debauchery.

[ There is the slightest elongation of the final syllable, the only testament to the several drinks Clea's imbibed. It is an interesting discussion, which is why she's answered at all, but he does not desire her company and, as, wherever this is, it is not Verso's Canvas, she has no reason to force the issue, the alcohol in her system putting a blanket over the usual spike of hostility that surfaces when she thinks of her not father.

But why are they here? They are Maman's.]

Are you here on purpose?

[ Did they steal from Maman? ]

Please do not stab me. I'm on the verge of inebriation.

[Admitting it means she's been inebriated for some time now.]