Run her through that `Batti Batti' thing she's
got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz, I'll light a
cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song she
has. If I still don't light up make her go through that
`Ah, were you here, love,' from the piece. But if
I light up, it means that I'm going to light out, and
that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'll let her
know if she'll leave her address. You understand?''
``Perfectly.''
Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings
made her sick at heart--the chill, the dampness,
the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights, the coarsely-
painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of her
chosen profession. What a profession for such a person
as she had always been! She stood beside Moldini,
seated at the piano. She gazed at the darkness,
somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. After
several false starts she sang the ``Batti Batti'' through,
sang it atrociously--not like a poor professional, but
like a pretentious amateur, a reversion to a manner of
singing she had once had, but had long since got rid of.
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