We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you’re unripe and half-educated. ’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. Even our coarseness.
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