They were terrible, horrible people. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. Idiote.
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