Don't Mistake Dramatics For A Conscience.

Her Voice Was Slightly Accented But Her French Was Perfect. Someone Who'd Not Just Learned The Language But Loved It. And It Showed With Every Syllable. Gamache Knew It Was Impossible To Split Language From Culture. That Without One The Other Withered. To Love The Language Was To Respect The Culture.

In Winter The Very Ground Seemed To Reach Up And Grab The Elderly, Yanking Them To Earth As Though Hungry For Them.

He Tried To Let Her Know It Would Be All Right. Eventually. Life Wouldn't Always Be This Painful. The World Wouldn't Always Be This Brutal. Give It Time, Little One. Give It Another Chance. Come Back.

But There Was No Hiding From Conscience. Not In New Homes And New Cars. In Travel. In Meditation Or Frantic Activity. In Children, In Good Works. On Tiptoes Or Bended Knee. In A Big Career. Or A Small Cabin. It Would Find You. The Past Always Did. Which Was Why... It Was Vital To Be Aware Of Actions In The Present. Because The Present Became The Past, And The Past Grew. And Got Up, And Followed You. And Found You... Who Wouldn't Be Afraid Of This?

But You Want Murderous Feelings? Hang Around Librarians," Confided Gamache. "all That Silence. Gives Them Ideas.