And he isn't only addressing what Combeferre's said aloud, which is why his friend's hand is still clasped in his.
"You're right to mention the thought, of course. But we won't do that. If it comes to that point, we'll see if we can still kill him. It's more honest."
There's no virtue in torture. Not of the body, not of the soul.
The sunlight of this winter afternoon slants pallid through the room's one window; it turns each dust mote to a miniature spark, and bleaches the stones of the floor and walls to a paler, clouded grey. But the fireplace throws a golden glow of its own, gleaming off Enjolras's hair, his grave and delicate face, their joined hands.
no subject
He does; he agrees.
And he isn't only addressing what Combeferre's said aloud, which is why his friend's hand is still clasped in his.
"You're right to mention the thought, of course. But we won't do that. If it comes to that point, we'll see if we can still kill him. It's more honest."
There's no virtue in torture. Not of the body, not of the soul.
The sunlight of this winter afternoon slants pallid through the room's one window; it turns each dust mote to a miniature spark, and bleaches the stones of the floor and walls to a paler, clouded grey. But the fireplace throws a golden glow of its own, gleaming off Enjolras's hair, his grave and delicate face, their joined hands.