I find it fails far more often than it succeeds. I feel it is imperative to say I am seldom enthusiastic about one author adopting another’s characters or storyline to their own purposes. I suppose what bothers me here is that this is not her character, this character belongs to Victor Hugo, and his Eponine is more real and complete for me than Fletcher’s is. She is very effective at drawing her reader into her characters. I tried to imagine not being able to fill in the blanks with the true story of Les Miserables, and I felt, under those circumstances, I would have ended this with more questions than answers. If you had no familiarity with Les Miserables and did not know the events that took place in that novel, you might feel a little lost and let down in this one. We become stories that are spoken of, for always. Footprints in the dust and fingerprints on everything we’ve touched, warmth in every hand we’ve held. A bird in flight will lose a snow-white feather, and flowers in the hedgerows will drop petals.
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