She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. It was hard to part with romance, but she had never thirsted so keenly to go on with her University work in her life as she did that day. He had often read about it, and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue controlled would have meant liberty indefinite. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. Lots of us are like that.
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