His gaze fell naturally upon a disordered corner by the door. At first he attached no importance to the objects jumbled there. With a feeling of mild confusion and surprise, he recognized them — his canvases, his easel, his paints. He found it hard to believe that he had once been a painter — only months before — and that this room, with the bars and the straps and the needles, had once been the birthplace of still lifes, of affectionate portraits, of sentimental landscapes. For a moment, the room became ugly and frightening, and David wanted to tear down the bars, cover the straps with the
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