The luxurious chamber had its window ajar, the evening breeze flowing inside and causing the ethereal curtains to fly quietly in the candle light. The pearly white sheets of the canopy bed resembled a romantic painting from which the painter knew no color but crimson. Dark patch in the room, the artist of this tragic scene was standing near the bed, watching the warm red paint finishing to spread on the canvas of the bedding. He was holding in his glove a single black spiny rose, which he tenderly placed on the forever silent throat of his last masterpiece. 

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