Explore "Crome Yellow" by Aldous Huxley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was after ten o'clock. The dancers had already dispersed and the last lights were being put out. To-morrow the tents would be struck, the dismantled merry-go-round would be packed into waggons and carted away.
An expanse of worn grass, a shabby brown patch in the wide green of the park, would be all that remained. Crome Fair was over.