It's alright, dear, it didn't spill
"Then I'll go with pleasure." And he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp...
growing around the brain-jack.
In spite of the excited condition in which he was, the sentence about technique had sent a pang to Mikhailov's heart, and looking angrily at Vronsky he suddenly scowled. He had often heard this word `technique,' and was utterly unable to understand what was meant by it. He knew that by this term was meant a mechanical dexterity for painting or drawing, entirely apart from its subject. He had noticed often that even in actual praise technique was opposed to essential quality, as though one could paint well something that was bad. He knew that a great deal of attention and care was necessary in taking off the veils, to avoid injuring the creation itself, and to take off all the veils; but there was no art of painting - no technique of any sort - about it. If to a little child or to his cook were revealed what he saw, either would have been able to peel the veils off what was seen. And the most experienced and adroit painter could not by mere mechanical faculty paint anything if the lines of the subject were not revealed to him first. Besides, he saw that if it came to talking about technique, it was impossible to praise him for it. In all he had painted he saw faults that hurt his eyes, coming from want of care in taking off the veils - faults he could not correct now without spoiling the whole. And in almost all the figures and faces he saw, too, remnants of the veils not perfectly removed that spoiled the picture.
"Very well!" retorted the man; "a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw.
As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door.