There is a reasonable likeness and a convincing skin tone. The composition is satisfactory. The draftsmanship professional. There is, in fact, nothing technically wrong with the painting, it is just … dull. Dull and flat and lifeless. Where is the flair? The spark of life? The character in the features? The beauty? I can’t show this to Mangan.

An image of Lilith’s face, bold and graceful, springs up before his mind’s eye. His joy at seeing her again, at discovering her identity, at knowing she is not lost to him, is tempered by her reaction to him. He recalls the way she spoke to him, the way she judged him, and the memory irks him anew. She was quick to label him as contemptuous, on scant evidence.

But then, had not I formed an instant opinion of her, too? And there was sorrow behind her words. Some personal pain.

He remembers she had said it was a relative who used Mr. Chow Li’s services. He can only imagine how terrible it must be for her—for a woman like her—to have to go to such a place. It is a measure of her character that she would undertake such a mission. She cut a striking figure, tall and elegant in her hooded cape. A point of restrained glamor amid the gray, brutal surroundings of Bluegate Fields. When he was introduced to her in Mangan’s studio he found himself awkward in her company. Disturbed by being so close to her. She has a presence that is not easily ignored. Later that same day, over black tea with no sugar, the children having eaten the last of it on bitter oranges from the leavings at Brewer Street market, Jane told him more about her. The daughter of a duke, born into one of the wealthiest families in London.

No use Bram from Yorkshire filling his head with thoughts of a member of the aristocracy.