The last chamber was devoted to bead-work, weaving and work in brass. The faces of the patients here wore the expression of one who has just sighed profoundly, dismissing something insoluble - but their sighs only marked the beginning of another ceaseless round of ratiocination, not in a line a with normal people but in the same circle. Round, round, and round. Around forever. But the bright colours of the stuffs they worked with gave strangers a momentary illusion that all was well, as in a kindergarten.
Part II, Chapter XIV, Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1934.
This is a very poignant passage, isn't it? I can just visualise "the expression of one who has just sighed profoundly". It kind of appears to me like a melting wax mask or silk mask, even, pale and softly, sadly slumping downwards.
That is such a truthful statement, about the bright colours giving you the illusion that everything was well, as in a kindergarten. It's completely true, and I don't want to talk about it because you already believe it, don't you?