Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. One cannot trust any man at all. A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. For a space he rode the whirligig. ‘And I don’t mind telling you it goes agin’ the grain with me to let you go free and all, missie.
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