He watched her, savoring her curious attention. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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