She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. . . As he approached the gable of Mrs. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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