CHAPTER XVII. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. A cold shiver came over her. With astonishment, Gerald saw a rheumy film rimming his old commander’s eyes. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. "But I like Bobby Burns best. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. "I should never have been what I am, but for you. They were hailed as celebrities, the three of them. ‘Well?’ she said.
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