Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. ’ ‘Probably not. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. ” She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. .
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