Cosette laughs merrily. "You are a silly dear. All right, if that's what you want, of course I shall."
She spends a moment in thought, and then stands and folds her hands before her.
Cosette's store of songs is nearly all garnered from the convent -- that, and a small stack of sheet music collected in recent years, and songs overheard in the street now and again. But mostly what she knows is hymns. She does give thought to teasing her father with a song of love and springtime, but what she chooses in the end is an old favorite: a hymn to God's grace, learned young, sung at her father's knee and her uncle's and to the apple trees, and in chorus with other young voices.
(She might have faltered when she thought of her uncle, if she allowed herself to, but she doesn't allow the thought to show in face or voice. It will grieve her fath-- her papa, and that's the opposite of the point.)
MAYBE SOMEBODY SHOULD LOCK THEM IN A ROOM TOGETHER AND NOT LET THEM OUT TILL THEY'VE DONE THIS.
She spends a moment in thought, and then stands and folds her hands before her.
Cosette's store of songs is nearly all garnered from the convent -- that, and a small stack of sheet music collected in recent years, and songs overheard in the street now and again. But mostly what she knows is hymns. She does give thought to teasing her father with a song of love and springtime, but what she chooses in the end is an old favorite: a hymn to God's grace, learned young, sung at her father's knee and her uncle's and to the apple trees, and in chorus with other young voices.
(She might have faltered when she thought of her uncle, if she allowed herself to, but she doesn't allow the thought to show in face or voice. It will grieve her fath-- her papa, and that's the opposite of the point.)