"Father!" Quasimodo shouted, running to the window. "Father, look at the sky! It's so beautiful!"
"Quasimodo, how many times must I tell you, call me Master? Come over here," the judge commanded, refusing to acknowledge the child's joy at the colors.
Quasimodo was five years old now, and already able to read, write, and do arithmetic. He may have been a monster, but he was a fast learner, Frollo admitted grudgingly.
As the boy loped over to the table where Frollo sat, he attempted to hold himself straighter. He had a hunchback, which he knew was not normal, as neither Frollo nor any of the townsfolk he watched out the windows stood stooped like him. Frollo repeatedly told him he was deformed and ugly, so Quasimodo did not think very highly of his appearance, but he was proud of his intelligence, puffing his chest with pride every time he read a passage out loud correctly and got a curt expression of approval from the man who served as his father, teacher, and master.
"Let us review you