These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. 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. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. “But who’s going to pay for the room?” “I’ve got money,” said Ann Veronica.
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