It was _nearly_ right--nearly splendid.

It only lacked that last subtlety which the world always lacks, the last final clinching which puts calm into a sea of fabric, and yet is the opposite pole to machine fixity.
But the leading tenor was the chief pain.

He was large, stout, swathed in a cummerbund, and looked like a eunuch.

This fattish, emasculated look seems common in stage heroes--even the extremely popular.

The tenor sang bravely, his mouth made a large, coffin-shaped, yawning gap in his orange face, his little beard fluttered oddly, like a tail.