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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2022 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Javert slithered silently out of bed when he heard the church bells toll six o'clock. It was still dark outside, and the fire in the room had nearly burned out. The coals were just barely glowing, and the room was almost pitch black, and cold. His nude body shivered as he tiptoed to his wardrobe and quietly dressed himself in a white shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. He glanced at Emmanuelle's sleeping form wistfully and sorrowfully as he silently opened and shut the bedroom door.
The stairs creaked gently as he descended, but he walked as quietly as he could into the parlor. He laid down on one of the chaises, bending his knees a bit because it was too short for him. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, with his agony and guilt. He was so exhausted that he fell asleep within minutes, fast asleep in the cold room with no blanket to cover him.
When he woke, the church bells were tolling ten o'clock. Javert startled awake, jarred out of his sleep when he realized what time it was. He sat up and looked around him. The house was quiet and seemingly empty. He walked back up the stairs and into the bedroom. Emmanuelle was gone.
“Jeanette!” Javert called, his voice shaking with cold and uncertainty.
Jeanette came through the door that led to the attic stairs a moment later and curtsied to him, too formally, he thought. “Monsieur?” she raised her eyebrows at him.
“Where is my wife?” he asked bluntly.
“The Madame awoke at eight o'clock and asked me to help her get dressed. She said she would be visiting her mother today. She asked me not to wake you.” Jeanette lowered her gaze and pursed her lips. The domestic tension between husband and wife was awkward, and she didn't seem to want any part of it.
Javert nodded at her and dismissed her, and returned to the bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he climbed into the bed, fully clothed, and fell back asleep.
When he woke again, it was one o'clock in the afternoon. He felt discombobulated, waking so late in the day. He looked around the house. Emmanuelle was still gone. He sighed and went to the tavern up the street for a mid-day meal. He was determined not to go to Emmanuelle's mother's house. It was obvious she didn't want to see him right now. He could hardly blame her, but he could only hope she wasn't spending her time at her mother's telling everyone what a horrible husband he was.
He spent hours reading the Bible in the parlor, waiting for her to come home. At six in the evening he asked Jeanette to prepare supper, and the maid began making stew in the kitchen. By eight o'clock, Javert was sitting alone at the dining room table, slowly spooning hot stew into his mouth. He felt as though at any moment he might burst into tears like a child. Shame boiled through his veins with an intensity he'd never felt before.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a key in the front door, and he set down his spoon. Emmanuelle walked in and pulled off her bonnet. She did not look at Javert. She acted as though he was not there at all.
“Good evening,” Javert finally said, sounding defensive for reasons he didn't know.
She bit her bottom lip and stared at her bonnet. “Hello,” she replied with a sigh.
“Did you have a nice visit with your mother?”
“Yes; Henri Boisson was there. We talked for hours.”
Javert abruptly felt another unfamiliar feeling shock his system – jealousy.
“Who is Henri Boisson?” he asked, his words measured and monotone.
She finally raised her eyes to look at him. “A family friend,” she said. “His father was a dear friend of my father for many years. Henri and I have known each other since we were children.”
“Was he there with his wife?”
“He's not married,” Emmanuelle said simply.
“How old is he?”
She sighed loudly and gave Javert an irritated look. “He's twenty-three.”
Javert felt his cheeks flush red with anger and envy – no, possessiveness.
“I don't want you 'talking for hours' with an unmarried twenty-three year-old man,” he said, his voice gruff.
Emmanuelle's face twisted suddenly into a look he'd never seen before. “This coming from the man who essentially raped me last night!” she said loudly, and Javert balked.
“I said I was sorry!” he insisted, becoming flustered.
“Sorry!” she was nearly yelling now. “I had nightmares about it all the while that I slept! The look on your face... I didn't even recognize you... you...” she trailed off, tears flowing from her angry eyes and streaming down her face. Javert rose from his chair and jogged over to her.
He reached out to embrace her, and she stepped back. “Don't touch me!” she cried.
Again, Javert was stunned into motionless silence.
“I'm going back to my mother's. I'm spending the night there,” she said, putting her bonnet back on her head and tying its ribbons quickly. She whirled around to leave and Javert grabbed her left arm. She swiveled quickly and slapped him as hard as she could with her right hand. “Let me go!” she shouted.
Javert's cheek stung from the slap, and he felt rage burning in his eyes. He tightened his grip on Emmanuelle's arm. “You're not going anywhere,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice menacing.
She was sobbing now, with great heaving gasps, and in her eyes there was a look of pure terror. She was afraid of him. Javert had no idea what to do. He was treating her like a criminal, he knew, but what offense had she committed?
“Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting my arm!” her words came out unevenly through her sobs.
He lowered his grip on her arm to her wrist and pulled on her to follow him. She didn't resist like he was sure she would. She followed him upstairs, still crying, into the bedroom. He shut the door behind them and turned the lock.
“What are you going to do to me?” Emmanuelle asked, her voice wavering with fear.
He didn't answer. He dragged her to a wing back chair and pushed her down onto it. He stood before her and looked down, crossing his arms over his chest. She took her left arm and rubbed it gently with her right hand. He had hurt her again, and guilt rushed through him, mixed with anger and jealousy. His mind was a tempest.
“Why are you afraid of me?” He asked, but it came out too harshly. Immediately, he thought to himself that it was also a foolish question with an obvious answer.
“Because... last night you were so rough, and now today you got jealous of a friend who's nothing but an art student I've known since we were children – he's like a brother to me! And then you grabbed me so hard that my arm still hurts, and... why?! Why are you hurting me? What's wrong with you? Don't you love me?” She dissolved into a mess of shaking sobs, bent over and heaving with her cries.
Javert stood straight but felt tears coming to his eyes. He blinked them back and bit his lip hard. He felt like a monster.
“I've been a beast to you,” he said quietly. “I don't know what's gotten into me.”
“I do!” she managed to say between sobs. “It's that fugitive, that Valjean! You thought you had him, thought you'd finally caught him, but you hadn't, and now you're angry at him and yourself and the world and you're taking it all out on me! And what on Earth have I done?! I'm no criminal! I'm your wife!”
Javert thought for a moment. She was right. His ferocious mood had come on after mistaking the man on the street for Jean Valjean. And what had he done? He'd come home and ravished his precious young wife when she didn't want him. He'd physically hurt her today. He'd accused her of betraying him. He'd been a scoundrel.
“I've been awful,” he said out loud, his voice full of grief. “You're right. None of this is your fault. I love you.”
“Prove it,” she said brusquely.
“What?” he furrowed his brow.
“Prove that you love me. I scarcely believe it after last night and today.” She looked up at him with pitifully sodden eyes, her lips puckered in a mix of fear and sadness.
Javert knelt in front of the chair and took Emmanuelle's face in his hands. He pulled her close to him and kissed her softly on the lips. Slowly, he urged her to part her lips with his tongue. She obliged, and he gently brushed his fingers and thumbs over her face as he kissed her. He moved his hands to her hair, tracing his fingers through the smooth, wavy locks. She reached up and grasped his hands, bringing them down to her lap and intertwining their fingers. She squeezed his hands gently, and he stroked her tiny hands with his rough thumbs.
She broke the kiss and gazed at him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and there were dry streaks running down her cheeks from her tears. She swallowed hard, and her face was stoic.
“You...” she looked down at their hands and gulped again. “When I met you, you were kind and gentle. Strong, confident, and protective... but kind. Where has that man gone?”
Javert released her left hand and tipped her face up by the chin so that she was looking in his eyes once more.
“I promise to try, Emmanuelle. I have a bad temper. I get frustrated... but I promise I will never take it out on you again.”
She nodded. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips.
“If you want passion... if you want an outlet for your frustrations... you need only ask me,” she said in a steady voice. “You can make love to me roughly. But I'd like to know that when you're doing it, you still love me.”
She began crying again, and Javert wiped tears from her cheeks, feeling her soft skin under his rough thumbs. He frowned and pulled her close to him, her head resting on his shoulder and her chest spasmodically heaving against his own.
“Emmanuelle,” he said in a voice he tried to make sound as soothing as possible, “I love you more than life itself. I will tell you that every hour of every day if that is what it takes for you to believe me.” He buried his face in her silky hair. “I love you,” he said again, his voice firmer.
. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and tossed it onto the chair beside her, where Javert's uniform was strewn.
She looked at Javert again, whose face was riddled with guilt and shame. He met her gaze for a moment, but couldn't bear to look into her wide, green eyes for long before the torturous feelings ripped through his gut. He cast his eyes down, as she often did in difficult situations.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice wavering. Javert raised his eyes and fought back the tears that wanted to form. “If you love me, show me. Make love to me gently,” she said, “slowly.”
Javert grasped her hand again and stood, pulling her up with him. He led her to the bedside, and turned her so that her back was to him. He unbuttoned the back of her pale yellow dress and she helped him shuck it off over her head. He untied the cotton stays she was wearing and peeled them off, and they joined the dress on the floor. Her petticoat and bloomers followed, and soon she was nude before him. He rotated her at her waist and sat on the bed, pulling her close.
She reached down to unbutton Javert's shirt, and he helped her with the rest until they were both devoid of the confines of clothing.
“Lie down on your back,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. Emmanuelle did as he said. He climbed onto the bed beside her and began stroking her face. “You are the most beautiful creature God ever created,” he murmured, and she smiled at him for the first time in two days. It was a small smile, tentative and unsure, but Javert would take whatever expression of happiness she would give him right now.
He moved his hands down to her chest, massaging both breasts and running his thumbs over her nipples. “And these,” he said to her, “are perfect.” She smiled again and closed her eyes, tipping her head back into the pillow. Javert kept massaging her right breast with his left hand, but let his right hand slide down over her smooth, flat abdomen and rested his palm on her vulva, fluttering her clitoris with two fingers.
Emmanuelle moaned quietly and squirmed. Javert smiled to himself as his erection grew harder and longer. He began plunging his fingers in and out of her entrance, which grew more wet by the second, being careful to stroke her clitoris with every thrust.
“Oh, God,” Emmanuelle gasped, arching her back and grasping the blanket in her hands.
“Should I stop?” Javert's voice was teasing.
“No! Don't stop!” She exclaimed, a throaty moan escaping her lips. Javert felt his hardness aching for attention, but he kept his focus on Emmanuelle. He let his left hand drift over her chest, abdomen, down over her hips and thigh and began long strokes up and down the inside of her leg. He felt goosebumps on her skin in the chilly room and realized he'd never lit a fire.
“Are you too cold?” he asked her, concern in his voice.
“No! I'm fine! Please just don't... stop...” she was bucking her hips now, and moaning all the while. Javert slipped his left hand under her to grasp her backside and massage it as he increased the speed of his ministrations with his right hand.
In an instant, she fell off the ledge. Her body went rigid and she cried out, her wetness clenching rhythmically around Javert's fingers. As the spasms grew less frequent, her body relaxed, and she sighed heavily. She looked him in the eye and grinned widely.
“Your turn,” she said fiendishly.
He gave her a knowing half-smile and straddled her on his knees. He guided himself into her and she gasped and squealed quietly as he entered her. Leaning forward onto his hands, Javert began thrusting slowly and steadily, establishing a constant, even tempo. Emmanuelle reached up and rubbed her hands over his muscular shoulders and arms, his solid chest, and reached around him to stroke his back. He shivered at her touch. She lowered her tiny hands to his backside, one hand on each cheek. She drew him into her with each thrust, and Javert moaned at the sensation.
His arousal nagged at him to go faster and harder, but she wanted it slow and gentle, and he struggled to maintain his poise. But then her hands began egging him on, urging a faster pace. He happily obliged, speeding up his thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt with each one, and Emmanuelle let out a little noise every time he plunged in deeply.
As if she'd read his mind, she took her hands and clutched his face. Looking him in the eye, she said, “I know I said I wanted it slow, but I can't take it. Go faster. Please, please, please, go faster.”
Javert grinned wickedly at her. He would show her just how fast he could go.
He rose back up so he was on his knees and held Emmanuelle by the waist. He began thrusting hard and fast, his tempo steady and rapid. She moaned continuously.
“Oh, God, yes, more!” she cried out, and Javert pumped faster.
Quite suddenly, he felt his orgasm building, and within seconds he was beyond the point of no return. He groaned loudly and thrust through his climax, until his hypersensitive member could take no more, and he pulled out of Emmanuelle.
He leaned down to kiss her deeply, and she held his face in her hands as he kissed her.
“I love you very much,” Javert said, when she finally broke the kiss.
“I believe you,” she said, nodding and smiling softly. “and I love you, too.”

Javert had prayed that the following day at work would be better than the horrible night that had set such terrible domestic events into motion. But when he arrived at the police station, Beasse turned to look at him with a grim gaze.
“What's wrong?” Javert said by way of greeting.
“Three houses got robbed last night; we think by the same crew of miscreants. I believe it's that man from the country, Théndardier, and his posse. But I have no proof. One man saw thieves and his description matched Théndardier perfectly.”
Javert sighed. Théndardier was a relative newcomer to the slums of Saint Michel. Some said he'd been an innkeeper in the North, in the country, but poor bookkeeping had led to the business going belly-up and now he was a petty thief and house robber in the slums of Paris.
“I'll go to Saint Michel to investigate,” Javert began, but Beasse cut him off.
“I already did. No one's saying anything. You know how they all are about the police in that hellhole. They protect their own scum.”
“Then what do you suggest I do about it?” Javert asked, sounding annoyed.
“You live on Rue Sainte Marguerite, do you not?” Beasse raised his eyebrows.
“I do,” Javert answered, caution and suspicion in his voice.
“All the houses robbed were on that street. I'd patrol Saint-Germain tonight if I were you.”
“Keep watch around my own house?” Javert sounded incredulous.
“That's where they're striking.”
Javert shook his head. He grabbed his nightstick and gave Beasse a hard look. “Thank you for the advice, Beasse. I'll feel like a rat in a trap all night, pacing up and down my own street, but you stay here and do paperwork.” With that, he turned and left the station, the bitter cold biting his cheeks and nose.
He had walked the entire length of Rue Sainte Marguerite six times in the frigid chill, growing more and more disgruntled, before he saw them. A group of three men were using a crowbar to wrench open the door of a boulongerie, long since closed for the day. Javert couldn't fathom what they would want from a boulongerie, but the men were breaking in, that was for sure.
He knew if he started running at them, they would get away. They were at least a hundred yards from him. But how to sneak up on them? Javert figured it was best to let them get inside the shop and then trap them in there. He wasn't sure how he was going to subdue three suspects. His target would be Théndardier, undoubtedly the ringleader. He considered the fact that they were armed with a crowbar and took a deep breath to steady his courage.
Javert moved through the shadows in the dim light of the street lamps, thankful that it was a cloudy night with no moonlight to illuminate him. He kept his back to the buildings and shuffled sideways toward the boulongerie. At last, the three men managed to open the door, and they quietly jogged inside. Javert ran the last fifty feet to the store and charged through the door.
The three men were stuffing large burlap sacks with loaves of the day's bread by the time Javert reached them. He immediately picked out Théndardier and rushed toward him, his nightstick raised. Before he could bring it down, there was a solid blow to the back of his head, and everything went black.

Javert slowly opened his eyes and was struck by the brightness. From where was this light source coming, when only moments ago it had been the middle of the night? He raised a hand to cover his eyes and felt a deep throbbing at the back of his head. His eyes stung and watered from the bright light. The thieves! Had they escaped him?
“Oh, mon Dieu! He's awake!”
Emmanuelle? Why was she in the bakery?
“Darling? Darling, look at me, please. Jeanette! Fetch the doctor! And Inspector Beasse!” Javert felt his hand being moved, and the bright light again blazed, making his eyes burn. He tried to keep them open and looked for the source of the voice. His vision was blurry, but gradually his eyes normalized and Emmanuelle came into focus. She looked as though she herself had been attacked. There was crusted blood on her cornflower blue dress, on the collar and sleeve, and her hair fell loose in tangles and snarls. There were deep circles under her eyes, as though she hadn't slept for ages, and dried blood on her neck and decolletage. She looked like she'd been crying.
“Why are you bleeding?” Javert mumbled, his voice cracking. He was so thirsty.
“I'm not bleeding; it's your blood,” she answered briskly, looking down at her own dress. “Darling, you've been hurt, quite badly hurt, and you need to tell us how, because nobody knows what happened to you.”
“Was in a bakery...” Javert murmured, trying to swallow. His mouth was too dry to talk. “Water, please,” he whispered. Instantly, Emmanuelle held a cup of water to his mouth, and he drank enough to wet his mouth and throat. “Was in a bakery,” he repeated. He suddenly felt sleepy, and his eyes fluttered closed again.
“No; stay awake now, please. Stay with me!” Emmanuelle was pleading with him.
Javert opened his eyes and looked down at himself. He was wearing his inspector's uniform, except for his woolen jacket and boots. He looked around, again giving his eyes a moment to focus. He was in his own bed, in his flat. How much time had passed? How long had he been unconscious?
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice thin.
“You've been out for two days,” Emmanuelle said. He looked at her, surprised, and she began crying. “I didn't know if you were ever going to wake up! The doctor said you might never wake up!” She leaned over from the chair she was sitting on beside the bed and laid her head on his chest, sobbing. He realized that his right hand fingers were interlaced with hers. Had she been sitting here beside him, keeping vigil, for two solid days?
“I'm awake now,” Javert said in a low, gravelly voice. “I'm here.”
She sat up and looked at him. “When Inspector Beasse is here, will you be able to tell him what happened?”
Javert thought hard. What had happened? He remembered flashes; he'd been in a bakery and it was night. There were others there, but who? He couldn't see their faces. Then everything was dark and gone. He didn't remember falling, or being struck, but his head was throbbing, and he reached a hand to the back of his head and felt a long gash sewn up with stitches.
“Someone hit me,” he said, but it came out more like a question.
“Yes,” Emmanuelle confirmed, nodding and raising her eyebrows. “You were attacked while you were working. Don't you remember what happened?”
Javert furrowed his brow and thought hard. The details were fuzzy. Too fuzzy. Why couldn't he remember?!
“No,” he finally said. “All I remember is being in a bakery at night, and there were other men there.”
Emmanuelle shook her head sadly. At that moment, Inspector Beasse walked through the open door, his hat in his hands. He was out of breath, as though he'd run from the station to Javert's flat.
“Javert!” Beasse exclaimed. “Thank God. We all thought -” he stopped and looked up at Emmanuelle, who was still brushing tears from her eyes. “Well, in any case, I'm glad you're awake.”
Javert nodded. Had he been that close to death, that all of them had thought he'd never wake up?
Beasse strode over to the bedside and stood beside Emmanuelle. Javert thought it very strange that Beasse was in his house, and he didn't particularly like it. They were co-workers, not friends. He wanted to be alone with Emmanuelle. He gazed at her lovingly. Why was he getting so emotional? His head must have been truly damaged.
“Javert,” Beasse said, and Javert startled. “What the devil happened to you?”
“He doesn't remember!” Emmanuelle blurted. “All he remembers is being in the bakery, that it was night, and that there were others there!”
Beasse sighed heavily. He shook his head. “Do you remember our conversation earlier in the evening about Théndardier?”
Javert thought hard again. He vaguely recalled talking to Beasse in the station before going on patrol. He knew Théndardier, a thief and robber from Saint Michel. Was that who they'd been discussing?
“I recall speaking to you, but I don't know about what or whom.” Javert said after a while.
“Do you remember nothing of your patrol? Nothing of that night at all?” Beasse sounded desperate.
“The last thing I remember clearly is sitting at the dining room table eating ratatouille for supper with Emmanuelle.”
Beasse and Emmanuelle looked at each other. “That was just before he left for the station,” Emmanuelle told Beasse.
Beasse shook his head again. “I'm sure it was Théndardier, or at least that he was involved. But even if Javert remembered what happened, we'd only have one testimony in court... we've got no case. The bastard got away with it.”
“I'm sorry,” Javert said quietly, staring straight ahead. “I don't remember...” He paused and looked at Beasse. “I'll be back to work as soon as I can.”
Beasse laughed then, a sardonic snort. “Javert, you've sustained a serious head wound. The captain said you're not to be back for at least a month. You'll still receive pay, since you were hurt on patrol.”
Javert gaped. A month with no work?! He'd go bored out of his mind! “I'll be fine in a day or two!” he insisted.
Emmanuelle squeezed his hand, and he lowered his eyes to look at her. “Darling,” she said, “you've been unconscious for over two days. The doctor said if you woke up there would be... damage.” She sighed. “We have to wait and see how you are.”
Suddenly, Javert found himself laughing out loud. Emmanuelle and Beasse looked at each other, and there was fear and panic in Emmanuelle's eyes.
“What's so funny?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“It's just... the day I met you, you were passed out in my arms. Now it was me. We're horrible luck for one another's consciousness.” Javert's laughter faded when he saw the terrified look on Emmanuelle's face. “It's funny!” he told her, still smiling.
She burst into tears again. Javert frowned and looked at Beasse, who took a step back.
“You weren't here for the last two days, trying to wake you, thinking you would never open your eyes, never speak again... thinking I'd lost you! It's not funny!” Emmanuelle sobbed.
“I'm awake! I'm alive! Why aren't you smiling?” Javert was irritated.
“She's been inconsolable,” Beasse said by way of explanation. “I've been here as often as possible, when I wasn't working, and she's not left your side since we brought you home. She went to the police station when you weren't home two hours after your shift ended at two. Prelout was there but didn't know that you were patrolling Sainte Marguerite. I was already at home. They didn't find you until the baker went to his shop at seven. The doctor tried to wake you with smelling salts, but you were unresponsive. He sewed up your wound and we had a priest brought in here to give you your last rites.”
Javert raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry, Emmanuelle,” he said. She was still crying. He turned to Beasse. “Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I can't give you any information about the incident. May I have some time with my wife, please?”
“Of course. Be well, Javert,” Beasse bowed to Emmanuelle and nodded to Javert. He strolled out the door just as Jeanette walked in with the doctor. Javert sighed heavily. Everyone was hovering. He wanted to talk with Emmanuelle.
It was Doctor Tournette, the same doctor who had treated Emmanuelle when she'd been ill. Again Javert nearly laughed at the déjà vu.
“Inspector Javert,” Doctor Tournette said, ambling to the bedside. “Madame,” he nodded at Emmanuelle.
“Doctor, I truly am fine. What is all this nonsense about staying off of work for a month?” Javert put his mouth in a flat line and glared.
“Your brain has suffered a serious trauma,” Tournette replied simply. “Quite frankly, Inspector, you should be glad you're going back to work at all. You very easily could have perished. The injury was quite severe. You lost a lot of blood; your skull was cracked beneath the wound, and, obviously, it rendered you unconscious for two days.”
Javert sighed. He was frustrated – at himself, mostly, for letting this happen. From what everyone said, it sounded like he'd walked into an ambush. How big an idiot had he been on the job? He'd failed miserably.
Tournette completed a thorough examination of Javert, including asking him to move all of his extremities and stand up to walk. Though Javert was quite dizzy when he stood, he was able to take a few unsteady steps. Tournette asked him some simple questions, such as, “What is four plus three?” and “What is your wife's name?” He checked Javert's stitches and said with relief that the wound had not festered.
When at last he was done, Javert again asked for some time alone with Emmanuelle, and the doctor concluded that he was done for the day. He'd come again tomorrow, he said, and Emmanuelle had smiled gratefully at him. Jeanette led the doctor out of the room and downstairs, and at last Javert was alone with Emmanuelle.
“You look as though you've gotten no sleep,” he told her bluntly.
“That's because I haven't. I haven't slept a wink since we brought you home,” she said.
“You'll become ill if you go so long without sleeping,” he told her, his voice stern.
“How was I to sleep, knowing that any breath you took might be your last?” she asked shrilly.
“You can sleep now,” he said, grasping her hand between both of his. “I woke up. I'm here. I'm all right.”
She sighed, and the sigh turned into a yawn. She giggled a little under her breath at the irony, and he smiled, too.
“Please, come lay beside me,” he patted the blankets next to him.
Emmanuelle went to the other side of the bed and climbed onto it. She cuddled close to Javert. He wasn't tired at all, so he pulled himself up to a seated position and propped himself up with pillows. She placed her head in his lap and he stroked her face and hair gently.
“Thank God,” she said, relief flowing through her words, and then she was asleep.
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