Back of the last row in a famed Parisian theatre, an old man leaned heavily on his cane. A bushy white beard he had, and silken hair on his head, tres distingue.
His eyes, grave, misty, searched out the stage, followed from right to left the song-swayed limbs of Raquel Meller.
In Spanish shawl, she sang an unaccomplished Spanish love. With eyes, mouth, chin, fingers, feet, she told the story of her song. Then a last tender note half-unsung, she stopped, plucked a flower from her dress, swung across...
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