And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed.
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