The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. ‘I do not see at all. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. There! You are trying to take your hand away. Wagstaff. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled.
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