with you. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. She interrupted. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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