As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. IX. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd.
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