Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards his
previous audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in a
controlled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between an
old Cologne woman and a railway guard.
His body was slight and unformed, like a boy's, but his voice was
mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy,
and of a mocking penetrating understanding. Gudrun could not understand
a word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. He must
be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment and
singleness. The Germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing his
strange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect. And in the midst of
their paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four English
strangers, the elect. Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh. The room
rang with shouts of laughter. The blue eyes of the Professor's
daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheeks
were flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the most
astonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on their
knees in excess of joy.
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