"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied.
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