Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Gerald would not marry her even with a dowry. “About two years ago. I bored him. “Look round the table,” she said. She threw the bags of marijuana and a tiny bag of white powder he had in the sewer, unfortunately they were his only worldly possessions. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably.
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