Si! Sono pazza, pazza, pazza ...
Pazza per amore,”
she warbled, leaping lightly over the footlights into the stalls.
The auditorium, steeped in darkness, felt extinguished, chill.
Making a circuit of the boxes, she found her way up a stairway into the promenade.
Busts of players, busts of poets, busts of peris, interspersed by tall mirrors in gilt-bordered mouldings, smiled on her good-day.
Sinking to a low, sprucely-cushioned seat, she breathed a sigh of content.
Rid of the perpetual frictions of the inevitable personnel, she could possess the theatre, for a little while, in quietude to herself.
In the long window boxes, tufts of white daisies inclining to the air brought back to mind a certain meadow, known as Basings, a pet haunt with her at home.
At the pond end, in a small coppice, doves cried “Coucoussou-coucoussou” all the day long.