She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. 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. “What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. She sensed that he was looking for her. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said.
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