Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. ” “There are some French customs,” he declared, “which are admirable. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. She would never again be lonely. Besides, she had admitted her identity. "It is Jonathan. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. “Quite on my own,” she said. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes.
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