She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out.
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