Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. . The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones.
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