I went to the theatre that night. Meysey Hill—never your wife. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. "Come, then," said Wild, marching towards the door, "we've no time to lose.
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