In a small area just west of Washington Square, the street runs zigzag and cut itself into small pieces called ‘specialties’. These 'special zones' form strange angles and curves. Each street cuts itself once or twice. For a while, an artist discovered the useful ability of this street. Imagine, when a person who collected receipts for paint, paper money and canvas came across that street, he suddenly realized that he had come back without having collected a penny.

So soon the artists flocked to the quaint quaint Greenwich village, hunting for northern windows, eighteenth-century gigs and Dutch-style loft rooms at cheap rents. Then they imported several buckets cast from lead and tin alloys, one or two hotpot stoves from Sixth Avenue and formed the 'artist district'.

Attic to the low-rise three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy have a studio. Johnsy is the familiar name of Joanna. One from Maine, and the other from California.

They met at Table d'hôte in the Delmonico shop on Eighth Street and found that they shared the same interest in art, in lettuce salads, on the wide-fitting outer sleeve style that matched the studio. Chung was born.

It was in May. In November, a stranger who had never seen his face, so cold, the doctor called him Phlegmon, stalked to the artist's area, occasionally reaching out his cold fingers to touch someone. Across the East, the destroyer bravely walked, knocked down dozens of victims; but when he went through the mossy ‘specialties’ and the narrow streets, his feet walked cautiously.

Mr. Lungs is not a genuine soldier. A slender, bloody woman depleted by the winds of Western California could hardly be the rightful opponent of that old, red, breathing, fisted fist. But he still whipped Johnsy; she lay, hardly moving on her painted iron bed, looking through the small Dutch windowpane windows onto the empty wall of the brick house opposite.

One morning, the doctor had bushy, bushy eyebrows calling Sue into the hallway.

"We can say that her chance of living is only one-tenth," he said as he shook the thermometer to lower the mercury. - But that part depends on whether she wants to live or not. The kind of person who lined up next to the owner of the ark didn't mean anything to the medicine. Her little girl thought she would not recover anymore. Does she have anything in her head?

"She - she wants to have the day to paint the Bay of Naples," said Sue.

- Drawing? Geez! Does she have anything worth bothering about more times? - A boy, for example?

- A boy? Sue said, raising her voice as if the sound of a guitar suddenly let go. - A man is good? But, no, doctor, that is not the case.

"Well, so it's only weak," the doctor said. - I will try my best to run with all my medical capital. But once the patient started calculating how many cars to attend my funeral, I had to deduct fifty percent of the medicinal effect. If you could get her to ask about new winter fashions, sleeves, for example, I'm sure she would have gone up to two in ten instead of one now.

After the doctor left, Sue went into the office, crying all over the Japanese towel. Then she calmly brought the drawing board into Johnsy's room, whistling a jazz tune.

Johnsy lay, facing the window, the blanket on his body almost without wrinkles. Sue stopped whistling because she thought you were asleep.

She set up the artboard and began drawing illustrations of the magazine story with an iron pen. Young painters had to pave the way to art with illustrations for magazine stories penned down by young writers to get to literature.

As Sue was sketching elegant riding pants and monocle glasses for the main character, the Idaho cowboy, she heard a whisper repeatedly. She hurried to the bed.

Johnsy's eyes widened. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.