’ She ended on a note of sheer frustration, clenched fists beating the air. "Spring!—I never knew any. Only her babe died. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Go and live somewhere else. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. ” They stared at each other through a pause, and both faces were flushed and obstinate.
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