Often, after that, Gilberte had to go to him and open, as she said, the door of his prison-house, unbind his hands and deliver his captive soul. But she did it so easily that it amused them both.
"You have but to lift your little finger," Guillaume would say, "to bring down the prison-walls."
Under this uneven and rugged husk, Gilberte discovered the most exquisite and delicate of natures, a poet's nature that was galled by all its surroundings, a child's nature that his mother had kept in to the verge of pain. And it was often from the point of view of a child that Gilberte was glad to be with him. They would laugh at the least thing, with that childish laughter, which is so good just because it has no excuse except our need of laughter. They longed to run and skip and play.
"Oh dear, how young I am!" Guillaume would exclaim.
