On the top shelf of a closet in the wall a small pile of canvases gathered dust, face downward.

Not a brush-mark of her own was visible.

She told herself that she had done with that.
The girl sat with her long cloak about her and a blanket over her knees.

Her fingers were almost nerveless with cold; as she laid down her manuscript she tried to wring warmth into them.

Her face was white, her eyes were intensely wide open and wide awake; they had black dashes underneath, an emphasis they did not need.