The tenor voice was hard, strident, sang lustily
but inexpressively in the glaring sunshine. And the dialect made the
song seem different, almost new. Its charm seemed to have evaporated.
Yet she remembered vaguely that it had charmed her. She sought for the
charm, striving feebly to recapture it.
The piano-organ hurt her, the hard voice hurt her. It sounded cruel
and greedy. But the song--once it had appealed to her. Once she had
leaned down to hear it, she had leaned down over the misty sea, her
soul had followed it out over the sea.
"Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate
Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la Marina:
Mi destan le dolcissime serate
Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina."
Those were the real words. And what voice had sung them?
And then, suddenly, her brain worked once more with its natural
swiftness and vivacity, her imagination and her heart awaked. She was
again alive. She saw the people. She heard the sounds about her. She
felt the scorching heat of the sun.
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