Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her.
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