“She’s just so goddamn demure,” National Gallery docent Lucille Scanlan said, noting the girl’s untouched brown hair, curling at the ends. “She clearly refrains from any and all non-virginal acts. Just look how fucking delicate her pink cheeks are. And, hot damn, those eyes are as bright as the fucking sun!"

“There’s not a single fucking thing lewd about this girl,” Scanlan continued, analyzing the unrevealing nature of the girl’s simple blue dress. “I swear, the gold necklace sitting on her fragile, milk-white throat is maidenly as all hell.”

“She really sewed the fuck out of that bonnet with her nimble-ass fingers,” Scanlan said, impressed at the lace doilies laid out on the nice-ass chestnut table like quaint fucking water lilies floating on the surface of a motherfucking tranquil pond. “She’s as pure as the fucking snow, okay?”

At press time, wilting flowers in a still life were so fucking melancholy you don’t even know.