One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris.
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