Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. Is there anything you want?" She laid her hand on his forehead, and found it without fever.
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