The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. ’ Gerald’s jaw tightened. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved.
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