Above the housetops it was different. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. This was irregular. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. I think that I am very fortunate to have it to sign. This is a mere boy. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of the husband, but even to his inclinations.
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