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notwithstanding, and superior to the vague agonies of peril, but
inwardly shuddering at her isolation, found confidence and support. She
had seized her thread of safety in the universe of shadows; she put her
hand on the powerful head of Gwynplaine.
Joy unspeakable! she placed her rosy fingers on his forest of crisp
hair. Wool when touched gives an impression of softness. Dea touched a
lamb which she knew to be a lion. Her whole heart poured out an
ineffable love. She felt out of danger--she had found her saviour. The
public believed that they saw the contrary. To the spectators the being
loved was Gwynplaine, and the saviour was Dea. What matters? thought
Ursus, to whom the heart of Dea was visible. And Dea, reassured,
consoled and delighted, adored the angel whilst the people contemplated
the monster, and endured, fascinated herself as well, though in the
opposite sense, that dread Promethean laugh.
True love is never weary. Being all soul it cannot cool. A brazier comes
to be full of cinders; not so a star. Her exquisite impressions were
renewed every evening for Dea, and she was ready to weep with tenderness
whilst the audience was in convulsions of laughter. Those around her
were but joyful; she was happy.
The sensation of gaiety due to the sudden shock caused by the rictus of
Gwynplaine was evidently not intended by Ursus. He would have preferred
more smiles and less laughter, and more of a literary triumph. But
success consoles. He reconciled himself every evening to his excessive
triumph, as he counted how many shillings the piles of farthings made,
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