The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. He wore the white cloak of a marshal; his face was pale and strange; he held his hand pressed to his side. The two were walking slowly towards Davin's rooms through the dark narrow streets of the poorer jews. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk.
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