You make a game with me, imbecile. I was his wife. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags.
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