Richard Kendrick's
heart was thumping vigorously away in his breast as he looked his fill
at the figure before the curtain, secure in the darkness of the house
from observation at the moment.
When he had first met this girl he had told himself that he would soon
know her well, would soon call her by her name. He wondered at himself
that he could possibly have fancied conquest of her so easy. He was not
a whit nearer knowing her, he was obliged to acknowledge, than on that
first day, nor did he see any prospect of getting to know her--beyond a
certain point. Her chosen occupation seemed to place her beyond his
reach; she was not to be got at by the ordinary methods of approach.
Twice he had called and asked for her, to be told that she was busy with
school papers and must be excused. Once he had ventured to invite her to
go with Mrs. Stephen and himself to a carefully chosen play and a
supper, but she had declined, gracefully enough--but she had declined,
and Mrs. Stephen also. He could not make these people out, he told
himself. Did they and he live in such different worlds that they could
never meet on common ground?
_The Taming of the Shrew_ came to a triumphant end; the curtain fell
upon the effective closing scene in which the lovely _Shrew_, become a
richly loving and tender wife, without, somehow, surrendering a particle
of her exquisite individuality, spoke her words of wisdom to other
wives.
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