I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. ” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. Know that I love you, that I will always love you. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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