“None, I thank you,” he answered. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome.
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