Likely as not outside the law, too. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly.
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