” She smiled artificially as she scanned the audience and located John. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. ” 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. She made a step forward. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. " "And you my warning," retorted Wild.
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