Juan Gris Guitar on a Chair painting

Juan Gris Guitar on a Chair paintingGeorge Bellows Club Night paintingGeorge Bellows Autumn Brook painting
should surely have occasioned some concern. He had been in some sort of trance, and when he asked the old dame what she thought of it all she smiled weirdly and told him that there was nothing new under the sun, she had seen things, the apparitions of men with horned helmets, in an ancient land like England there was no room for new stories, every blade of turf had already been walked over a hundred thousand times. For long periods of the day her talk became rambling and confused, but at other times she insisted on him huge heavy meals, shepherd's pies, rhubarb crumble with thick custard, thick--gravied hotpots, all manner of weighty soups. And at all times she wore an air of inexplicable contentment, as if his presence had satisfied her in some deep, unlookedfor way. He went shopping in the village with her; people stared; she ignored them, waving her imperious stick. The days passed. Gibreel did not leave.
"Blasted English mame," he told himself. "Some type of extinct species. What the hell am I doing here?" But stayed, held by unseen chains. While she