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a little brown book
finding the life of Alexander Shaw, a kind of serial story.
They had helped me keep from thinking about what I had done, and seen the night before.

I did get into a bit of trouble for missing rehearsals; but I smoothed it over- with nothing but but my charm to back me up; since I had discovered that calling on the protection charm the night before had drained every set-spell I had at the ready. But it worked, though I fear I had used up any leeway my good nature had earned me until that point. I was a good actor; true, with excellent manners to charm upper class patrons who might endow the theater, and handsome enough to garden attention; but both manager and director were determined not to let that go to my head. After all, we weren't high theater- we performed weeknights, the only difference between us and a cabaret halls were we were ( or least pretended to be) intellectual. Which also meant not particularity profitable. But I was alright with it, as long as they allowed for the occasional lapse.

I don't know if I mentioned this before; but I liked working there. I enjoyed acting. The attention from the theater goers was gratifying, to say the least. And while it didn't exactly keep me in the lap of luxury, I had enough.

Since then I've heard that all actors are masochists.
And I 'd have to agree.





 
 
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