” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. “I’ll turn you here. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands.
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