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Everything she said and did on the stage had continued, as it had begun
in her very first rehearsal by being, just the expression of his will
through her instrumentality. It was amazing to her that, with the core
of it drawn out, the fabric should still stand; that the piece should go
on repeating itself night after night, automatically, awakening the
delighted applause of that queer foolish monster, the audience, just
with its galvanic simulation of the life he had once imparted to it.
She was doing her own part, she felt at all events, in a manner utterly
lifeless and mechanical. It was a stifling existence!
The most discouraging thing about it was that the others in the company
seemed not to feel it in the same way. Anabel Astor for example: night
after night she seemed to be born anew into her part with the rise of
the first curtain; she fought and conquered and cajoled, and luxuriated
in the approbation of every new audience, just as she had in the case of
the first, and came off all aglow with her triumph, as if the thing had
never happened to her before.


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