It's his look that does it, and how close to the surface all her emotions have been. She had once told Degas that she couldn't cry, that she felt simply incapable, no matter what she did. But now it wells up, making her eyes shine, and though the motions are unfamiliar, the emotions are known to all.

It is no simple, elegant tear falling, but a sob that escapes her, her hand going to her mouth to stop her from making more noise - there's still other people in this house - even as her eyes burn with unshed tears. The release of feeling is welcome, but does the mechanical action have to feel like nothing else can get done? It's almost enough to make one wish for fifty more years of averting it.