Quickly, as if she were recalled by something overthere, she turned to her canvas. There it was — herpicture. Yes, with all its green and blues, its lines run-ning up and across, its attempt at something. It wouldbe hung in the attics, she thought; it would be de-stroyed. But what did that matter? she asked herself,taking up her brush again. She looked at the steps;they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it wasblurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw itclear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre.It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, layingdown her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had myvision.