“Sold again,” she remarked. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. ” She turned a firelit face to her husband. John looked at his feet bashfully.
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