"He never will as long as he lives," answered Marchmont with a shrug of
his shoulders.
"But he won't live?" whispered the Dean. "You mean that?"
The applause ended; there was no need for Marchmont to answer, even if he
could have found an answer. Quisante took up his work again. He was near
the end now, an hour and a quarter had passed. May's eyes never left him;
he was going to get through, she thought, and she had no thought now of
the compromise or the year of quiet, no thought except of his triumph
that to-morrow would ring through the land. He paused an instant, whether
in faltering or for effect she could not tell, and then began his
peroration. It was short, but he gave every word slowly, apart, as it
were in a place of its own, in the sure and superb confidence that every
word had its own office, its own weight, and its own effect. But before
he ended there came one interruption. Suddenly, as though moved by an
impulse foreign to himself, old Foster pushed back his chair and rose to
his feet; after an instant the whole audience imitated him.
Pages:
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465