Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Another picture slid across her vision. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir.
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