Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. Jackson’s. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. “I have heard of you, of course,” Anna answered hesitatingly, “but——” “You cannot imagine what I have come to see you about. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. Almost the best of all. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom.
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