She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Or appeared to do so. She could not part with dignity. But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself. Say something.
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