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He started back from the ominous swish of the Donatelli gown, the deep cadence of the Donatelli voice, the restless Donatelli walk, now resumed. "How dare you!" cried the diva. "How dare you intrude on me?" "The saints!" cried Signer Peruchini. "What service is zere here? I knock, but you do not hear. Madame, what horror is zis place!" "Ah, that Blauring!" cried Madame Donatelli, in her rage.
"The beast! How dare he bring me here me!" Petersburg! I shall not survive this!" "Perfide!" cried Peruchini, in assent. "Perfide! R-r-rascal! Cochon! Pig unspikkab'!" "But, madame," he resumed, with gestures and intonations suitable for the scene. "Behole! It is I who have lofe you so long. To lofe ah, it is so divine! How can you riffuse?" Madame Donatelli withdrew with proper operatic dignity.
The gal, she got married and moved to Tularosa, and that broke up the singin'-school. There ain't been any kind of show at Heart's Desire for five years. But say, ma'am," he interrupted, "about that feller that had hold of you when I come in. Did he hurt you any?" "That's our leading tenor, Signer Peruchini! He's a great artist." She laughed, a ripple of soft, delicious laughter.
This ain't right." And that was all he ever knew of Signer Peruchini, for the latter sprang back and away into an immediate oblivion. Tom Osby from that instant was himself swept on by the glory of this woman's presence. Confronting her, he stood half trembling, at once almost longing for warlike action rather than that now grown needful.
El Paso seemed like a dream, San Francisco a figment of the brain, and New York a wholly imaginary spot upon some undiscovered planet, lost in the nebulous universe of space. She trod the uneven floor as some creature caged, on her face that which boded no good to the next comer, whoever he might be. The next comer was Signer Peruchini, the tenor. Unhappy Peruchini!
"Never!" she cried. "You have sufficiently persecuted me ere this. I bid you go. Begone!" "Vooman, you mad meh!" cried Peruchini, rushing forward, his hands first extended with palms upward, then clenched, his hair properly tumbled, his eyes correctly rolling. "I vill not be teniet! Your puty, it is too much! Vooman, vooman, ah, have you no harret? Py Heaven, I "
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