But she was disappointed. . "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts.
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