It, generally ends in my obeying her--seldom in her obeying me.

But we'll see how I feel when the last act's over.

We'll talk of it when you come here--after my death." I tried to laugh, as I made that wretched jest, but I was sorry when I made it, and my laugh didn't ring true.

There was a shadow on Raoul's face--that dear, sensitive face of his which shows too much feeling for a man in this work-a-day, strenuous world--but I had little time to comfort him.
"It will be like coming to life again, to see you," I said.

"And now, good-bye! no, not good-bye, but _au revoir_." I sent him away, and flew into my dressing-room next door, where Marianne was growing very nervous, and aimlessly shifting my make-up things on the dressing table, or fussing with some part of my dress for the next act.
"There's a letter for you, Mademoiselle," said she.