Burn your palette and your easel. “It does nothing but sit there. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. At noon the doctor himself arrived. He flipped the television off.
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