Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. Prison was beastly. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. A nurse was at the other end of the room. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream.
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