"Sure, why?..."
"Ah, shut up," said John.
He did not wish to talk during the intervals between the acts. He wished to sit still in his seat and perform the play over again in his mind. He tried to remember Bassanio's description of Portia:
In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues....
He could not think of the words that came after that ... except one sentence:
...And her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece.
He repeated this sentence to himself many times, as if he were tasting each word with his tongue and with his mind, and once he said it aloud in a low voice.
"Eh?" said his neighbour.
"I was just reciting a piece from the play," he explained.
"What were you reciting?"