But now the real was definitely sifted out from the illusory. And
nothing but her own daily existence, as she had always lived it, was
real. The rest was a snare. There were no forests, no passionate
love, no flying steeds, no splendid adorers--for her. She was Rachel
Fleckring and none else.
Councillor Batchgrew turned to the left, and through a small hole in
the painted wall Rachel saw a bright beam shooting out in the shape of
a cone--forests, and the unreal denizens of forests shimmering across
the entire auditorium to impinge on the screen! And she heard the
steady rattle of a revolving machine. Then Batchgrew beckoned her into
a very small, queerly shaped room furnished with a table and a chair
and a single electric lamp that hung by a cord from a rough hook in
the ceiling. A boy stood near the door holding three tin boxes one
above another in his arms, and keeping the top one in position with
his chin. These boxes were similar to that in which Louis' tickets had
been dropped.
"Did you want your boxes, sir?" asked the boy.
"Put 'em down," Thomas Batchgrew growled.
The boy deposited them in haste on the table and hurried out.
"How is Mrs. Maldon?" demanded Mr. Batchgrew with curtness, after he
had snorted and sniffed.
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