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 had become! . . . I am lonely because all great people must be lonely. We cannot contact the people who understand us.

Ambrose, in Europe—all over that vast continent—I was known as a great star, a famous star. I come here and they make a mock of me. They put me in silly pictures. They ask me to work with incompetent directors. They understand nothing of what a woman like me must feel. All that I am willing to overlook. Do you know why?

No, Ambrose, wide-eyed, replied while he helped himself freely to cognac.

Because they pay me ten thousand dollars a week, that is why. So I say to myself, swine, I will make your stupid pictures, I will obey your stupid directors. . . well, sometimes. . . and I will save myself money and build myself a house where I can live for my art and be happy.

But you have a house! Ambrose exclaimed.

This! She frowned. A pigsty! A sheep-barn! A woodshed! I said I shall build myself a house. But do you know what has happened? she demanded.

No, Ambrose replied.

This Schwarzstein, this filthy, scurvy rat, has called me to his office to ask me to accept a cut. We must have a retrenches, he says to me. A retrenches!