V. Smith's melody had subsided. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. The boy she had loved was gone. She drew her naked arms around herself. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. “I should think YOU could do all sorts of things. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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