Xuanzang glanced at Wukong and the others beyond the golden line.
He smiled and continued:
"The painter stood outside."
"His brows were tightly knitted. The muddy water on his cuff had dried, leaving a gray stain."
"He looked down at it. The longer he looked, the more it grated on his eyes, so he rubbed it with his hand."
"But the more he rubbed, the farther the stain spread."
"His white sleeve became a wash of gray and yellow, its original color obscured."
"The painter's expression grew uglier and uglier."
"Then he heard all sorts of sounds coming from the room. He could not make them out. Sometimes they sounded like sutra chanting, sometimes like whispers, sometimes like fish slapping against a basket, and sometimes like canvas tearing."
"He wanted to push the door open and enter, and placed his hand on it."
"But a fragrance drifted out through the crack."
"His head suddenly felt light. He had never smelled anything so fragrant, and he could not help becoming intoxicated by it. His hand stopped pushing the door."
"But the moment he relaxed his hand, a fishy smell crept through the crack as well."
"Then the two scents mingled, until he could no longer tell fragrance from fishiness."
"The painter stood there, heaven and man warring within his mind. He knew the beggar was no ordinary mortal, yet he could not help wondering whether he was a fraud."
"Was he destroying his painting?"
"He wanted to open the door, but dared not."
"Yet keeping it closed sent his thoughts running wild."
"His unease made him irritable, and his irritation made him still more uneasy."
"So he stood outside the door, unable to advance or retreat."
"The painter stood outside for a long time."
"Until there were no more sounds inside,