“My violin—get it for me!” he whispered.
She stood aghast, feet glued to the floor.
“Your violin?” she muttered stupidly.
His quick gesture was full of anger.
“Yes, yes. Be quick before the music leaves me again! The violin’s in the corner by the piano.”
Her heart beating in great bounds, she brought him the instrument, and watched with brimming eyes while he placed it beneath his chin, and drew the bow in a great sweep over the strings.
It had all come back with new and overwhelming radiance.
As he broke into the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky’s concerto, Anne sank on to the foot of the bed with trembling knees.
When Miss Wilson, frightened, protesting, ran to the door, she stopped her with almost a disdainful gesture. It was her turn to command now. Let professional quibbling wait.
The music soared a rapturous, throbbing melody, then quavered suddenly into echoing silence—a silence that vibrated as if from invisible strings. The violin slipped from Alexis’ fingers on to the bed. He fell back against his pillows and Anne thought that he had fainted.