convulsively: "Why, she's a man!"

What a strange topsy-turvy world this was in which women were men,
and shops turned (as with a sudden creaking and darkness and
clattering did this one) into gardens by the sea. Jeremy drew his
breath deeply and held on. His mouth was open and his hair on end. .
.

It is impossible to define exactly Jeremy's ultimate impression as
the entertainment proceeded. Perhaps he had no ultimate impression.
It cannot in reality have been a very wonderful Pantomime. Even at
Drury Lane thirty years back there were many things that they did
not know, and it is not likely that a touring company fitted into so
inadequate an old building as our Assembly Rooms would have provided
anything very fine. But Jeremy will never again discover so complete
a realisation for his illusions. Whatever failures in the
presentation there were, he himself made good.

As a finale to the first half of the entertainment there was given
Dick's dream at the Cross-Roads. He lay on the hard ground, his head
upon his bundle, the cat as large as he watching sympathetically
beside him. In the distance were the lights of London, and then, out
of the half dusk, fairies glittering with stars and silver danced up
and down the dusky road whilst all the London bells rang out "Turn
again, "Whittington, Lord Mayor of London."

Had Jeremy been of the age and wisdom of Uncle Samuel he would have
discovered that Dick was a stout lady and probably the mother of a
growing family; that the fairies knew as much about dancing as the
Glebeshire wives sitting on the bench behind; that the London bells