it had oozed out. Her having strength to play at fancies
showed that a spark of hope was alive. In truth, firm of flesh as she
was, to believe that all worth had departed from her was impossible, and
when she reposed simply on her sensations, very little trouble beset her:
only when she looked abroad did the aspect of numerous indifferent faces,
and the harsh flowing of the world its own way, tell her she had lost her
power. Could it be lost? The prospect of her desolation grew so wide to
her that she shut her eyes, abandoning herself to feeling; and this by
degrees moved her to turn back and throw herself at the feet of Mr.
Pericles. For, if he said, "Wait, my child, and all will come round
well," she was prepared blindly to think so. The projection of the words
in her mind made her ready to weep: but as she neared the house of his
office the wish to hear him speak that, became passionate; she counted
all that depended on it, and discovered the size of the fabric she had
built on so thin a plank. After a while, her steps were mechanically
swift. Before she reached the chambers of Mr. Pericles she had walked,
she knew not why, once round the little quiet enclosed city-garden, and a
cold memory of those men who had looked at her face gave her some wonder,
to be quickly kindled into fuller comprehension.

Beholding Emilia once more, Mr. Pericles enjoyed a revival of his taste
for vengeance; but, unhappily for her, he found it languid, and when he
had rubbed his hands, stared, and by sundry sharp utterances brought her
to his feet, his satisfaction was less poignant than he had expected. As
a consequence, instead of speaking outrageously, according to his habit,
in wrath, he was now frigidly considerate, informing Emilia that it would
be good for her if she were dead, seeing that she was of no use whatever;
but, as she was alive, she had better go to her father and mother, and
learn knitting, or some such industrial employment. "Unless zat man for
whom you play fool!--" Mr. Pericles shrugged the rest of his meaning.

"But my voice may not be gone," urged Emilia. "I may sing to you
to-morrow--this evening. It must be the fog. Why do you think it lost? It
can't be--"

"Cracked!" cried Mr. Pericles.

"It is not! No; do not think it. I may stay here. Don't tell me to go
yet. The streets make me wish to die. And I feel I may, perhaps, sing
presently. Wait. Will you wait?"

A hideous imitation of her lamentable tones burst