When I sing, he never moves his eyes from my lips.
When he corrects me, and strikes a note, or a chord, or plays a passage, he himself is in the sounds, whispering that he pursues me as a lover, and commanding me to keep his secret.

I avoid his eyes, but he forces me to see them without looking at them.

Even when a glaze comes over them (which is sometimes the case), and he seems to wander away into a frightful sort of dream in which he threatens most, he obliges me to know it, and to know that he is sitting close at my side, more terrible to me than ever.' 'What is this imagined threatening, pretty one?
What is threatened ?' 'I don't know.

I have never even dared to think or wonder what it is.' 'And was this all, to-night ?' 'This was all; except that to-night when he watched my lips so closely as I was singing, besides feeling terrified I felt ashamed and passionately hurt.

It was as if he kissed me, and I couldn't bear it, but cried out.
You must never breathe this to any one.