It was so a woman might recite to a man she loved, but you almost felt as though the voice were too personal a revelation for an audience,--felt an impulse, so to say, to throw a veil over it, though you were glad from your soul that no one threw it.

And the voice was a wonderful actor too.

It could act the scenery as well.
You saw it all, you heard it all, you felt it all, in the voice:--the great winds blowing shorewards, the wild white horses in the spray, "The white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore;" and when she said, "Down, down, down!" you were indeed in the very depths of the sea--and were all sitting, Mr.Moggridge with the rest, amid coral caves and seaweed, and in a curious green and shimmering light.
But what a world of heart-break there was in her "Come, dear children, come away!" You felt you simply couldn't bear her to say it again.

Next time you'd have to cry, and cry you did, and you weren't ashamed, for suddenly when you came out of the trance of the voice you found that every one else was crying too, and Mr.Londonderry had quite forgotten that he was a chairman, and had to be nudged to announce the next piece.
This was a very strange poem, and made you feel like a stained-glass window; it was full of incense, but it was full of something else too.

It began "The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of heaven" ...
and there was something in the voice that suggested such a height up above the world that you drew your breath lest she should fall over.