Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects.

Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music.

The mystery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present seemed expressed in the whole picture.
But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I recall the scene.

First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast in respect of meaning and intention between the silent look directed that way and the flow of words that had preceded it.

Secondly, though Mr.Jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on me, I felt as if in that moment he confided to me--and knew that he confided to me and that I received the confidence--his hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship.
Mr.Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he was a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it--and played what he composed with taste.