There was the platform, the great piano sprawling over it; and in front
of this, rows and rows and rows--and rows upon rows--of empty seats.
She looked behind her--they had argued long over the question of places
for herself and his mother. "The very best," that's what Ben had said;
but they fought against this, fought and conquered, for the best seats
meant money. "What's a seat more or less, I'd like to know?"
"Money, all money." Old Mrs. Cohen had been firm upon this point.
Still, there were a great many seats yet further back--and all empty: a
little raised, seeming to push themselves forward with the staring
vacuity of an idiot: more seats overhead in a curving balcony, rising
above each other as though proud of their emptiness. It would have been
impossible to believe that mere vacant places could wear so sinister,
as well as foolish, an aspect. An idiot, but a cruel idiot, too: the
whole thing one cruel idiot, of the sort that likes to pull legs from
flies.
There was a clock there, also. For a long while Jenny would not allow
herself to look at it.
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