Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. “It is from his brother in Paris. I hate this part of the world.
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