A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her.
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