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An usher handed her a box of flowers and she hurried to her dressing room, found scissors and snipped the ribbon. When she lifted the lid, white butterflies flew out, hovering over the mound of flowers. She read the card. An old lady and her son she'd seen often at the Sans Souci — they'd been out front, they adored the Castles, now they adored her.
Weary fitters removed her dress carefully; by tomorrow they'd have it really ready, the seams firm. Yes, there'd be a tomorrow. Irene might be ill some days. Berlin came to tell her that. He also told her the headwaiter was here to take her back to the Sans Souci.
"Are you too tired ? I can fix it, little Murray."
Tired? She rushed out to find Maurice, a taxi for the halfblock ride.
"The place is packed," he told her. She could feel it, hurrying in.
"Everyone knows what you've done," Sabin said. "Half the audience from the theatre is here to applaud the little trouper." He bowed slightly, rubbing his hands. Unrecognizable. "You are ready? You will go on?"
She turned away slowly, changing her pace, removing her hat as if it were a crown.
"Well? Are you ready?"
"I'm hungry," she said slowly. "I must eat."
"You think of eating with the place packed? Otto Kahn is here with a party of twenty."
"Send the chef," she said quietly, going into her dressing room, into Jenny's hands. "Jenny, this must be changed, we must have taffeta and mirrors. You'll see tomorrow when you
come to the theatre An omelet," she told the chef, "the kind
they make for the actresses in Paris. Asparagus with hollandaise, coffee. Boil it fresh, please, and whipped cream."
The chef stared.
"A touch of sweet in the whipped cream."
The chef backed away.
When Jenny had stripped off her clothes, Mae stepped into
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