Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. And, snatching the spike from Thames, he struck the janizary a severe blow on the head. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes.
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