The word escaped him unawares. The packet Mariana held in her hand was her own portrait, which Markelov had given Nejdanov.
“A portrait?” she drawled out. “Is it a woman’s?”
She handed him the packet, which he took so clumsily that it slipped out of his hand and fell open.
“Why ... it’s my portrait!” Mariana exclaimed quickly. “I suppose I may look at my own portrait.” She took it out of Nejdanov’s hand.
“Did you do it?”
“No ... I didn’t.”
“Who then? Markelov?”
“Yes, you’ve guessed right.”
“Then how did it come to be in your possession?”
“He gave it to me.”