She came back and sat down stiffly, prepared to begin.
"I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said--"It was good
of you to come back--. Will you forgive me?"
She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me
feel so much--A foolish arrogance rose in me--
"We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.
She began to read--how soft her voice is, and how perfectly
cultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinary
English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.
What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of
refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an
inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is
nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her
habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she
never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--?
The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--!
"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.
"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.
"You like children?"
"Yes--."
"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"
"Yes--."
I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely
keeping her lids lowered--.
"How many?"
"Two--."