Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She smiled at the sight of him, and thereat his radiation increased. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering.
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