Amelie looked towards Pierre, and saw his eyes fixed upon her with
that look which fills every woman with an emotion almost painful in
its excess of pleasure when first she meets it--that unmistakable
glance from the eyes of a man who, she is proud to perceive, has
singled her out from all other women for his love and homage.
Her face became of a deep glow in spite of her efforts to look calm
and cold; she feared Pierre might have misinterpreted her vivacity
of speech and manner. Sudden distrust of herself came over her in
his presence,--the flow of her conversation was embarrassed, and
almost ceased.
To extricate herself from her momentary confusion, which she was
very conscious had not escaped the observation of Pierre,--and the
thought of that confused her still more,--she rose and went to the
harpsichord, to recover her composure by singing a sweet song of
her own composition, written in the soft dialect of Provence, the
Languedoc, full of the sweet sadness of a tender, impassioned love.
Her voice, tremulous in its power, flowed in a thousand harmonies on
the enraptured ears of her listeners.
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