She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived.
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