While Cecile was telling her little tale, Mrs. d'Albert had closed her eyes; now she opened them.
For the rest of that night Cecile sat on by the sofa where Mrs. d'Albert lay.
It was true that, as far as she could tell, Mrs. d'Albert's love might be still alive.
d'Albert, for the first time in his life, was short of money for his simple needs.
Without loving them, the second Mrs. d'Albert was good to her little stepchildren.
"But it ain't nice to think on now," repeated Mrs. d'Albert, in a fretful, anxious key.
With money in his purse, and secure in a small yearly property for at least some years to come, d'Albert came to England.
When d'Albert plays Chopin's Berceuse, beautifully, it is a lullaby for healthy male children growing too big for the cradle.
Mme. d'Albert anticipates all my wants, and makes a spoiled child of me.
His fortissimo chords have hitherto lacked the foundational power and splendour of d'Albert's, Busoni's, and Rosenthal's.