Certainly Albinos, who seemed to have rabbits' eyes by day, had cats' eyes at night: everybody knew that! ...

Yes, yes, he had undoubtedly fired at Erik.

Why had he not killed him?
The monster had fled up the gutter-spout like a cat or a convict who--everybody knew that also--would scale the very skies, with the help of a gutter-spout ...

No doubt Erik was at that time contemplating some decisive step against Raoul, but he had been wounded and had escaped to turn against poor Christine instead.
Such were the cruel thoughts that haunted Raoul as he ran to the singer's dressing-room.
"Christine! Christine!" Bitter tears scorched the boy's eyelids as he saw scattered over the furniture the clothes which his beautiful bride was to have worn at the hour of their flight.

Oh, why had she refused to leave earlier?
Why had she toyed with the threatening catastrophe?
Why toyed with the monster's heart?
Why, in a final access of pity, had she insisted on flinging, as a last sop to that demon's soul, her divine song: "Holy angel, in Heaven blessed, My spirit longs with thee to rest!" Raoul, his throat filled with sobs, oaths and insults, fumbled awkwardly at the great mirror that had opened one night, before his eyes, to let Christine pass to the murky dwelling below.