She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out.
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