Among the inn’s regulars there were painters who spent their time like the majority of young painters, wearing strange clothes and emitting superannuated paradoxes. One of them, named Brancowich, who had been smoking his pipe at the second table on he left for ten years, while waiting until he could get a place at the Institut’s manger, had chosen the innkeeper as a victim. Had he not undertaken to demonstrate one evening last week, with supporting evidence and indubitable philosophical citations, that color did not exist? To tell the truth, the existence of certain painters is an energetic
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