As the story developed it became more unreal and Maggie's unerring
knowledge of the difference between sense and nonsense refused to
credit the tall handsome villainness who confronted the Charity girl
at the ball. The Charity girl had no right to be at the ball and
people stood about in unnatural groups and pretended not to listen
to the loud development of the plot and no one seemed to use any of
their faculties. Then at the end, when the middle-aged gentleman
nobly surrendered his Charity girl to the handsome soldier, the
little tune came back again and all was well.
They came out of the theatre into lights and shadows and mists cabs
and omnibuses and crowds of people . . . Maggie clung to Martin's
arm. It seemed to her, dazzled for an instant, that a great are of
white piercing light cut the black street and that in the centre of
this arc a tree, painted green, stood, and round the tree figures,
dark shapes, and odd shadows danced. She shaded her eyes with her
hand. The long shining line of Shaftesbury Avenue ran out, from her
feet, into thick clusters of silver lights. The tree had vanished
and now there were policemen and ladies in hats and strange
mysterious houses.
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