He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ’ She focused on Gerald’s face. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt.
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