They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. Nobody can anticipate your next move. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. But she did not in the least want to do that. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. I want you to be my lover.
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