She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. ” “Very well,” he said. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. And so Winifred understood him. ” “What?” He asked, confused. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face.
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