The lights of the pendent candelabra quivered on that lousy theatre, paired with the unsightly colours of flaking wallpapers. Even the private box that the hideous man from the entrance guided you to, whom you paid handsomely for, was terribly worn.

Though, when those pools of blue that shone a violet hue under the lighting met your own, you were enthralled to stay.

There was she: Sibyl Vane — perfectly did she paint the image of the refined Juliet Capulet.

And all silenced as she performed.