Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. “Can’t it be altered? “I suppose an actress is free?. Wild," implored the turnkeys. There it was—to be borrowed. She took to listening through closed doors. "No," replied Jonathan, moodily. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them.
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