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


