"He never could paint people," Sam whispers. "He always left them out. Painted everything empty. Even when he drew himself, he couldn't do features ..."
The figure turns and Thibault glimpses its faceless face. Empty. A faint graphite sweep where there should be eyes. Blank as an egg. A poor, cowardly rendition, by a young bad artist.
"It's a self-portrait," he hears Sam repeat. She and Thibault reach for each other, hold each other up in fear.
Thibault says, "Of Adolf Hitler."