brain like a fish-eye already has marked you for her prey.
Ambrose had opened his mouth to protest.
Don't contradict me, Wilhelmina Ford had cried. You may not even know it, but I know women and I know enough about this particular specimen, after a brief study at close range, to realize she has already sensed it would give her career a great kick if she acquired you in some form or other. I am not worried. I, and destiny, marked you for my own, long before we met. Think it over, she had added, rising. You are going to Hollywood. So am I. We shall meet again.
Ambrose Deacon's meditations on this extraordinary episode were interrupted by a hoarse cry of rage. Presently he saw the Count Supari, his hair dishevelled, dash from the house, followed after an insignificant interval by a splendid Ming peach-blow vase which cut a graceful parabola in the air before it crashed on the brick terrace. Next, the protagonist of this melodrama herself appeared, shrieking guttural insults in fluent Spanish towards the clump of shrubbery behind which the Count had prudently taken shelter:
Tu—cabrón, desgraciado, muerto de hambre, hijo de tu puta madre!
