Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. When the lad is fit to be moved, we’ll bring him home. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. There was no response. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. Lucia had never been so happy, so content.
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