"There are no other women. You should feel honoured that we are having
you."
Emile stood up, having completed his renovating operations. "You want
to sing, eh?" Arithelli assented eagerly. "You will work?" Emile
demanded.
"Yes!" Her eyes had become suddenly like green jewels, and she looked
almost animated. She was more interested in Emile's music than in any
other part of him. His wild Russian ballads sung with his strange
clipped accent and fiery emphasis, fascinated her. She was content to
listen for an indefinite period of time, her long body in a restful
attitude, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, as absolutely
immovable as one who is hypnotised.
Emile, for his part, was equally interested in her exploits in
vocalism, which he found as extraordinary and unexpected as everything
else about her. Her singing voice was so curiously unlike her speaking
voice that it might have belonged to another person. It had tremendous
possibilities and a large range, but it was hoarse and harsh, and yet
full of an uncanny attraction.
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