A silence filled the room when he fessed he’d murdered Elegant Effendi. I assumed he’d kill me as
well. My heart quied. Had he e here to end my life or to fess and terrify me? Did he himself know what he wanted? I was afraid, realizing how absolutely unacquainted I was with the inner world of this magnifit artist whose splendid lines and magical use of color had been familiar to me for years. I could sense him standing stiffly behihere at the nape of my neck, holding that large inkpot reserved for red, but I didn’t turn to face him. I knew my silence would make him uneasy. “The dogs haven’t yet quieted down,” I said.
We fell silent again. This time, I khat my death, or my somehow avoiding this misfortune, would depend on what I told him. All I knew aside from his work was that he was quite intelligent, and if you grant that an illustrator must never reveal his soul in his work, intelligence is, of course, an asset. How had he ered me at home when ……（内容加载失败！）
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