Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-EN—Trencher that's it. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus.
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