They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Melusine shrugged. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service.
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