Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked,
with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.
Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.
"Yes, yes, Longears," he murmured, "I can't help showing it--even you
know that I am not happy."
And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon
his desk and touched the strings. The sound died away in trembling
waves--Roundjacket continued writing.
Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he was doing, took
the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder,
leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings. A long,
sad monotone floated through the room.
Roundjacket wrote on.
Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless,
his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which
sounded like a sigh.
Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.
Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as
to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his
under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.
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