From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench.
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