But Verena, muffled
and escaping, was deaf to him, and Ransom didn't look the right person
to address such a remark as that to. Mrs. Burrage and Olive, as the
latter shot past, exchanged a glance which represented quick irony on
one side and indiscriminating defiance on the other.
"Oh, are _you_ going to speak?" the lady from New York inquired, with
her cursory laugh.
Olive had already disappeared; but Ransom heard her answer flung behind
her into the room. "I am going to be hissed and hooted and insulted!"
"Olive, Olive!" Verena suddenly shrieked; and her piercing cry might
have reached the front. But Ransom had already, by muscular force,
wrenched her away, and was hurrying her out, leaving Mrs. Tarrant to
heave herself into the arms of Mrs. Burrage, who, he was sure, would,
within a minute, loom upon her attractively through her tears, and
supply her with a reminiscence, destined to be valuable, of aristocratic
support and clever composure. In the outer labyrinth hasty groups, a
little scared, were leaving the hall, giving up the game. Ransom, as he
went, thrust the hood of Verena's long cloak over her head, to conceal
her face and her identity. It quite prevented recognition, and as they
mingled in the issuing crowd he perceived the quick, complete,
tremendous silence which, in the hall, had greeted Olive Chancellor's
rush to the front. Every sound instantly dropped, the hush was
respectful, the great public waited, and whatever she should say to them
(and he thought she might indeed be rather embarrassed) it was not
apparent that they were likely to hurl the benches at her.
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