never tossed his!

During the whole time of the singing, Aratov had been watching Clara's
face. It seemed to him that her eyes, through the drooping eyelashes, were
again turned upon him; but he was especially struck by the immobility of
the face, the forehead, the eyebrows; and only at her outburst of passion
he caught through the hardly-parted lips the warm gleam of a close row of
white teeth. Kupfer came up to him.

'Well, my dear boy, what do you think of her?' he asked, beaming all over
with satisfaction.

'It's a fine voice,' replied Aratov; 'but she doesn't know how to sing yet;
she's no real musical knowledge.' (Why he said this, and what conception he
had himself of 'musical knowledge,' the Lord only knows!)

Kupfer was surprised. 'No musical knowledge,' he repeated slowly.... 'Well,
as to that ... she can acquire that. But what soul! Wait a bit, though; you
shall hear her in Tatiana's letter.'

He hurried away from Aratov, while the latter said to himself, 'Soul! with
that immovable face!' He thought that she moved and held herself like one
hypnotised, like a somnambulist. And at the same time she was unmistakably
... yes! unmistakably looking at him.

Meanwhile the matinee went on. The fat man in spectacles appeared again;
in spite of his serious exterior, he fancied himself a comic actor, and
recited a scene from Gogol, this time without eliciting a single token
of approbation. There was another glimpse of the flute-player; another
thunder-clap from the pianist; a boy of twelve, frizzed and pomaded, but