He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. I know why. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said.
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