Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. ” There was a shout of laughter. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to.
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