Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. . . It's of no use. Once again, he passed his hand over the surface and carefully noted all the obstacles. This was just what he needed. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them.
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