She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. “It was a phase,” she said. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. White said slowly, “it depends a good deal upon what rooms you have. ‘I’m a soldier, missie.
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