A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Borrow. "Coming!—so is midnight—so is Jonathan Wild," retorted Jack, with a significant look at Thames. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. She went to her own table and sat down. Agents were dispersed in all directions—offers the most tempting held out to induce the wavering to join the Chevalier's standard. But most of all, I wanted to love. Here goes.
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