” He grabbed a sword from the wall of arms. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. Why had he glanced up—quite in that way?. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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