"That is the style I worship--not admire," said Hans. "Other styles of women I might make myself wicked for, but for Berenice I could make myself--well, pretty good, which is something much more difficult."
"Hush," said Deronda, under the pretext that the singing was going to begin. He was not so delighted with the answer as might have been expected, and was relieved by Hans's movement to a more advanced spot.
Deronda had never before heard Mirah sing "_O patria mia_." He knew well Leopardi's fine Ode to Italy (when Italy sat like a disconsolate mother in chains, hiding her face on her knees and weeping), and the few selected words were filled for him with the grandeur of the whole, which seemed to breathe an inspiration through the music. Mirah singing this, made Mordecai more than ever one presence with her. Certain words not included in the song nevertheless rang within Deronda as harmonies from the invisible,

"That is the style I worship - not admire," said Hans. "Other styles of women I might make myself wicked for, but for Berenice I could make myself - well, pretty good, which is much more difficult."
"Hush," said Deronda, for the singing was going to begin.
He had never before heard Mirah sing "O patria mia." He knew well Leopardi's fine Ode to Italy (when Italy sat like a disconsolate mother in chains, hiding her face and weeping), and the words were filled for him with an inspiring grandeur. Mirah singing this, made Mordecai more than ever one presence with her.
