The world seemed a confused mixture of soap and starch and lights.

Piccadilly Circus was a cauldron of bubbling colour.
His breath came in little gasps, but his face, with its snub nose and large mouth, was grave and composed; up and down his back little shivers were running.

When the car stopped outside the theatre he gave a little gulp.

His father, who was, for once, moved by the occasion, said an idiotic thing; "Excited, my son ?" With his head high he walked ahead of them, trod on a lady's dress, blushed, heard his father say: "Look where you're going, my boy," heard May giggle, frowned indignantly, and was conscious of the horrid pressure of his collar-stud against his throat; arrived, hot, confused, and very proud, in the dark splendour of the box.
The first play of his life, and how magnificent a play it was! It might have been a rotten affair with endless conversations--luckily there were no discussions at all.

All the characters either loved or hated one another too deeply to waste time in talk.