You are not to answer any questions," said Emilia.
With a reassuring glance at the musician's wig, Braintop bent his head.
"Do see," she pursued, "how differently he bows from the other men, though it is only dance music.

Oh, how his ears are torn by that violoncello! He wants to shriek:--he bears it!" She threw a piteous glance across the agitated instruments, and Braintop was led to inquire: "Is he anything particular ?" "He can bring out notes that are more like honey--if you can fancy a thread of honey drawn through your heart as if it would never end! He is Italian." Braintop modestly surveyed her hair and brows and cheeks, and taking the print of her eyes on his brain to dream over, smelt at a relationship with the wry black wig, which cast a halo about it.
The musicians laid down their instruments, and trooped out, one by one.
Emilia perceived a man brush against her father's elbow.

Her father flicked at his offended elbow with the opposite hand, and sat crumpled up till all had passed him: then went out alone.

That little action of disgust showed her that he had not lost spirit, albeit condemned to serve amongst an inferior race, promoters of discord.
Just as the third play was opening, some commotion was seen in the pit, rising from near Braintop's vacated seat; and presently a thing that shone flashing to the lights, came on from hand to hand, each hand signalling subsequently toward Mr.Pole's box.

It approached.