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the scene was the hall of capulets house, and romeo in his pilgrims dress had entered with mercutio and his other friends. the band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, sibyl vane moved like a creature from a finer world. her body swayed, while she danced, as a plant sways in the water. the curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.
"before which dorian? the one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"
"i felt sure you had. did you make a scene with her?"
"my ideal, as you call it. . ."
"what was that, harry?"
"i am so glad i have found you, dorian," he said gravely. "i called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. of course, i knew that was impossible. but i wish you had left word where you had really gone to. i passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. i think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. i read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the globe that i picked up at the club. i came here at once and was miserable at not finding you. i cant tell you how heart-broken i am about the whole thing. i know what you must suffer. but where were you? did you go down and see the girls mother? for a moment i thought of following you there. they gave the address in the paper. somewhere in the euston road, isnt it? but i was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that i could not lighten. poor woman! what a state she must be in! and her only child, too! what did she say about it all?"
"that shall be given to you upstairs. i could not give it here. you will not have to read long."