Now he saw that her hands were wrapped around it: a solid silver bust of Christ, the head easily three times the size of his own. It had a patrician bump on its nose, magnificent curly hair that rested atop a pronounced collarbone, and a broad forehead that reflected in miniature the walls and doors and lampshades around them. Its expression was confident, as if assured of its devotees, the unyielding lips sensuous and full. It was also wearing Nora’s feather hat.
[…]
[Twinkle] took a breath, raised her eyebrows, crossed her fingers, “Would you mind terribly if we displayed it on the mantel? Just for tonight? I know you hate it.”
He did hate it. He hated its immensity, and its flawless, polished surface, and its undoubtable value. He hated that it was in his house, and that he owned it. Unlike the other things they’d found, this contained dignity solemnity, beauty even. But to his surprise these qualities made him hate it all the more. Most of all he hated it because he knew Twinkle loved it.