He could not
forbear to look, and as he continued looking he instinctively felt that
a passionate scene was being silently enacted between them. They sat
markedly apart. Nora's bosom heaved with suppressed emotion, and her
look, when raised to Julius, plied him with appeal or reproach--Lefevre
could not determine which. The doctor's interest almost drew him over to
them, when Lady Lefevre appeared and said to Julius--
"Do go to the piano, Julius, and wake us up."
Nora put out her hand with a gesture which plainly meant, "Don't!...
Don't leave me!"
But Julius rose, and as he turned (the doctor noted) he bent an
inscrutable look of pain on Nora. He sat down at the piano and struck a
wild, sad chord. Instantly it became as if the people in the room were
the instrument upon which he played,--as if the throbbing human hearts
around him were directly connected by invisible strings with the ivory
keys that pulsed beneath his fingers. What was the music he played no
one knew, no one cared, no one inquired: each individual person was held
and played upon, and was allowed no pause for reflection or criticism.
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