Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. At least here she was safe. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope.
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