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  • All night long I waited in the ante-room, raving as in a fever. Strange images
  • hovered past my inner eye. I saw their meeting—their long exchange of looks. I
  • saw her float through the hall in his arms, drunken, lying with half-closed
  • lids against his breast. I saw him in the holy of holies of love, lying on the
  • ottoman, not as slave, but as master, and she at his feet. On my knees I
  • served them, the tea-tray faltering in my hands, and I saw him reach for the
  • whip. But now the servants are talking about him.
  • He is a man who is like a woman; he knows that he is beautiful, and he acts
  • accordingly. He changes his clothes four or five times a day, like a vain
  • courtesan.
  • In Paris he appeared first in woman's dress, and the men assailed him with
  • love-letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for his art and his passionate
  • intensity, even invaded his home, and lying on his knees before him threatened
  • to commit suicide if he wouldn't be his.
  • "I am sorry," he replied, smiling, "I should like to do you the favor, but you
  • will have to carry out your threat, for I am a man."