The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. You’re a little late, you must remember, and we are punctual people here. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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