There is an iron spiral staircase that once led to the ladies'
hairdressing apartments, but now leads to more Shand, Shand, Shand. A
glass door at the back opens on to the shop proper, screaming Civil
and Religious Liberty, Shand, as it opens, and beyond is the street
crammed with still more Shand pro and con. Men in every sort of garb
rush in and out, up and down the stair, shouting the magic word. Then
there is a lull, and down the stair comes Maggie Wylie, decidedly
overdressed in blue velvet and (let us get this over) less good-
looking than ever. She raises her hands to heaven, she spins round
like a little teetotum. To her from the street, suffering from a
determination of the word Shand to the mouth, rush Alick and David.
Alick is thinner (being older), David is stouter (being older), and
they are both in tweeds and silk hats.]
MAGGIE. David--have they--is he? quick, quick! DAVID. There's no news
yet, no news. It's terrible.
[The teetotum revolves more quickly.]
ALICK. For God's sake, Maggie, sit down.
MAGGIE. I can't, I can't.
DAVID. Hold her down.
[They press her into a chair; JAMES darts in, stouter also. His
necktie has gone; he will never again be able to attend a funeral in
that hat.]
JAMES [wildly]. John Shand's the man for you. John Shand's the man
for you. John Shand's the man for you.
DAVID [clutching him].
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