She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice.
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