He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. “Nor am I now,” he answered. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. The first peg was torture. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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