His smile twisted wryly as he shot her a dry response.
You're a colourful person
His play on words was ironically serious. She was a colourful person; full of music and colour and life, while on the contrary dressing like death. She didn't behave like she wanted to die, however, she was a survivor, and if he came at her he had no doubt she would fight him with every ounce of strength she had, even knowing it would be futile.
He reached over to her again, and cool fingers tickled the soft flesh beneath her chin, much like one would caress a purring cat.
Let's go.
He was wanting to paint her, and as far as he was concerned, there was no time like the present. He could wait, of course, he'd waited lifetimes in some cases to do as he wished, but she struck him as pliable.