In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Or else I would have finished him. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. And also I have this Prudence.
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