‘Alcide’ or no ‘Alcide,’ there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Drummond patted him on the shoulder. ‘Must be still downstairs. I'm crazy over music, too.
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