Beat. Silence.
        Bow.
        An end.

        "Recumbent, fruitless, faultless, to what purpose?" spoke Cleo in conversation against a wall she languorous, she languished for Rose's sight and Rose's sake she who could see the masked joke so well not yet bitter nor quite sarcasm jester approaching she parading, flaunting, gesturing near then adeptly on.
        Cleo leaned against the wall and passed through or, perhaps, was absorbed, possibly admitted, the wall stretching like aged tympanum vibrant, parting swallowed Cleo through.
        With bark of laughter and small teeth bared Rose jumped after.