he gathered up his sheaf of papers and explained that foreign intonation was the always neglected cornerstone of the mastery of a foreign tongue.
In a moment he was back again on the hearthrug, beginning his lecture in a tone that was such an exaggeration of his conversational voice, so high-pitched and whistlingly rounded, so extremely careful in enunciation that Miriam could hear nothing but a loud thin hooting, full of the echoes of the careful beginnings and endings of English words.
The first sentence was much longer than his address to her and when it ended she did not know how or where to begin. But he had taken a step forward on the hearthrug and begun another sentence, on a higher pitch, with a touch of anger in his voice. She checked a spasm of laughter and sat tense, trying to ignore the caricature of his style that gambolled in her mind. The sentence, even longer than the first, ended interrogatively with a fling of the head. It was tragic . She was quick, quicker than anyone she knew, in catching words or meanings through strange disguises. An audience would be either furious or hysterical.
“You don’t want to threaten your audience,” she said very quietly in a low tone, hoping