At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. I have taken bullets and lived, and even a silver one wouldn’t do much. "It is," replied Sheppard. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. "Not my king's," returned Wood. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. I’m not discussing Shakespeare.
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