I never heard
you sing better in my life than you did last night; and, to say the
truth, these people seemed to appreciate it."
"I tell you, I hate it all--all--all!" said Bianca, as she swallowed
the last drop of her coffee, and threw herself on the sofa in an
attitude of languor and ennui.
"You are unreasonable, Bianca, you are not like yourself this
morning; I don't know what is come to you. What in the world do you
like, or what do you want?" said the old man, looking at her with a
puzzled air.
"Did you see the Marchese Ludovico in a box on the right-hand side
on the second tier with that Venetian girl, the artist?"
"The Marchese Ludovico was in the left-hand stage-box with his
uncle."
"Of course he was; but I mean between the acts. I saw him from the
wing by the side of that girl with her face the colour of mahogany,
and her half-alive look. I hate the look of her, and I know she
hates me!"
Old Quinto looked at his pupil curiously for a minute before he
replied to her.
"What do you mean, Bianca mia?" he said, at last; "and what, in the
name of all the Saints, is the Venetian girl to you, or you to her?
Did you ever speak to her? Why should she hate you?"
"I tell you, she does. We women can always see those things without
needing to be told them; and she knows, you may be very sure, that I
hate her.
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