greens and
blues，its
lines
running up
and
across，its
attempt at
something。It
would be
hung in
the
attics，she
thought；it
would be
destroyed。But
what did
that
matter？she
asked
herself，taking
up her
brush
again。She
looked at
the
steps；they
were
empty；she
looked at
her
canvas；it
was
blurred。With
a sudden
intensity，as
if she saw
it clear
for a
second，she
drew a
line
there，in
the
centre。It
was
done；it
was
finished。Yes，she
thought，laying
down her
