In Paris a death watch of newspapermen sat lounging, smoking, dozing in the downstairs hall of an unpretentious house. Above them one of the greatest sons of France lay on his death bed. To be sure there was a back stairs down which in silent, slippered feet the dying man could slip out and elude the watch. But whoever heard of such a thing? No one had heard until last week when withered Rose Caron, once long ago a great singer at the Paris Opera and a bosom friend of Georges Clémenceau, died. With...
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