And now her father said she must not go. It could not go on much longer, her luck. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers.
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