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  • Mrs Catherick prend le deuil

    "...Have you come here to tell me (my daughter) is dead?"

    "I have."

    "Why?"

    (...)

    "I came," I said, "because I thought Anne Catherick's mother might have some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive or dead."

    "Just so," said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession. "Had you no other motive?"

    I hesitated.  The right answer to that question was not easy to find at a moment's notice.

    "If you have no other motive," she went on, deliberately taking off her slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, "I have only to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer. Your information would be more satisfactory if you were willing to explain how you became possessed of it. However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going into mourning. There is not much alteration necessary in my dress, as you see. When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black."

    She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest composure, and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

    (Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White)

  • Un connaisseur

    There he sat, high above his neighbours, smiling, and nodding his great head enjoyingly from time to time.  When the people near him applauded the close of an air (as an English audience in such circumstances always WILL applaud), without the least consideration for the orchestral movement which immediately followed it, he looked round at them with an expression of compassionate remonstrance, and held up one hand with a gesture of polite entreaty.  At the more refined passages of the singing, at the more delicate phases of the music, which passed unapplauded by others, his fat hands, adorned with perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted each other, in token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man.  At such times, his oily murmur of approval, "Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!" hummed through the silence, like the purring of a great cat.

    (Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White)