The esteemed wife of the Warden, whose portrait remained unfinished, was also grieved by the death of the artist.
Of course, I had not expected this outcome, either, although a few days before committing suicide, K.had provoked in me a feeling of uneasiness.

Upon entering his cell one morning, and greeting him, I noticed with amazement that he was sitting before his slate once more drawing human figures.
"What does this mean, my friend ?" I inquired cautiously.

"And how about the portrait of the second assistant ?" "The devil take it!" "But you--" "The devil take it!" After a pause I remarked distractedly: "Your portrait of the Warden is meeting with great success.

Although some of the people who have seen it say that the right moustache is somewhat shorter than the left--" "Shorter ?" "Yes, shorter.

But in general they find that you caught the likeness very successfully." K.had put aside his slate pencil and, perfectly calm, said: "Tell your Warden that I am not going to paint that prison riffraff any more." After these words there was nothing left for me to do but leave him, which I decided to do.