Yes. Some things aren't for people who weren't there. Feuilly nods as well--and nods again when Bahorel explains about his brother. "Five. That's hard." A five-year-old is a pretty much a real person to another kid: you miss that person, the way it's hard for a child to miss a baby, no matter how devastated the adults are. (Mère Lucenay had cried over every one of the infants she'd nursed who hadn't lived. Some of it was a sense of duty, maybe, but it's a kind of duty that Feuilly can respect. As he can respect a young boy searching fairyland for a dead brother.)

But he's smiling a little now, at Bahorel. "No, well, I'm glad I do remember. And yes, we--we did all right by ourselves, I think. It wasn't just us, of course. I mean--I'm sure you've run into other people who it happened to. But I met Harry Percy--and that Jim, that Moriarty."