She swept along through the poem royally, playing on the emotions
of her audience as she had so often played on ours in the old
orchard. Pity, terror, indignation, suspense, possessed her
hearers in turn. In the court scene she surpassed herself. She
was, in very truth, the Florentine judge, stern, stately,
impassive. Her voice dropped into the solemnity of the all-
important line,
"'The court pronounces the defendant--'"
She paused for a breathless moment, the better to bring out the
tragic import of the last word.
"DEAD," piped up Sara Ray in her shrill, plaintive little voice.
The effect, to use a hackneyed but convenient phrase, can better
be imagined than described. Instead of the sigh of relieved
tension that should have swept over the audience at the conclusion
of the line, a burst of laughter greeted it. The Story Girl's
performance was completely spoiled. She dealt the luckless Sara a
glance that would have slain her on the spot could glances kill,
stumbled lamely and impotently through the few remaining lines of
her recitation, and fled with crimson cheeks to hide her
mortification in the little corner that had been curtained off for
a dressing-room. Mr. Perkins looked things not lawful to be
uttered, and the audience tittered at intervals for the rest of
the performance.
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