CHAPTER VIII. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “No, stay, Lucy. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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