Albert Albion stood back and smiled. It was as perfect as he thought it would be. He stepped forward and, shivering with anticipation, ran a finger over the rolling hills, imagining the perfect moment when the Genius committed his soul to canvas. It was such a visceral thing, this communing with an original Adam painting.
He staggered back slightly and lowered himself into a chair, exhausted. How had he been the chosen one to find the final piece? The luck involved. If it hadn’t been him, someone who knew the history of the Adam triptych, who had been called to value that estate, the picture might have remained lost. And while it was a little unethical to persuade a grieving relative to part with an unloved watercolour, the justification was that it had been neglected for so long, believed lost or, worse, destroyed.
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