The Iron Bar. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna.
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