"Hush!" Pen said, "she's speaking."

She began her business in a deep sweet voice. Those who know the play of
the 'Stranger,' are aware that the remarks made by the various characters
are not valuable in themselves, either for their sound sense, their
novelty of observation, or their poetic fancy. In fact, if a man were to
say it was a stupid play, he would not be far wrong. Nobody ever talked
so. If we meet idiots in life, as will happen, it is a great mercy that
they do not use such absurdly fine words. The Stranger's talk is sham,
like the book he reads and the hair he wears, and the bank he sits on,
and the diamond ring he makes play with--but, in the midst of the
balderdash, there runs that reality of love, children, and forgiveness of
wrong, which will be listened to wherever it is preached, and sets all
the world sympathising.

With what smothered sorrow, with what gushing pathos, Mrs. Haller
delivered her part! At first, when as Count Wintersen's housekeeper, and
preparing for his Excellency's arrival, she has to give orders about the
beds and furniture, and the dinner, etc., to be got ready, she did so
with the calm agony of despair. But when she could get rid of the stupid
servants and give vent to her feelings to the pit and the house, she
overflowed to each individual as if he were her particular confidant, and
she was crying out her griefs on his shoulder: the little fiddler in the
orchestra (whom she did not seem to watch, though he followed her
ceaselessly) twitched, twisted, nodded, pointed about, and when she came
to the favourite passage, "I have a William too, if he be still alive--
Ah, yes, if he be still alive. His little sisters, too! Why, Fancy, dost
thou rack me so? Why dost thou image my poor children fainting in
sickness, and crying to--to--their mum--um--other," when she came to this
passage little Bows buried his face in his blue cotton handkerchief,