Explore "The Master Mummer" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was not often we permitted ourselves such luxuries, but as we left the theatre I caught a glimpse of Isobel's white face, more clearly visible now than in the dimly lit box, and I knew that, bravely though she had carried herself through the whole of that trying evening, she was not far from breaking down. So I called a hansom, and she sank back in a corner with a little sigh of relief. I lit a cigarette, and suddenly I felt a cold little hand steal into mine. I set my teeth and held it firmly.
"Arnold," she whispered, and her voice was none too steady, "I hate that woman. I do not care if she is my aunt; and -- Arnold -- -- "