Mrs. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. The manager, however, who stood in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced the first few bars of the music. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said.
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