At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. 1. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream.
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