It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. His face was white. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. I do not wish to seek them out, en effet. ToC Mrs.
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