Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. . Leave go, I tell you!" and he forced open the knife with his teeth. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be his restrained and dignified friend. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. .
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