She pulled the trigger. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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