She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. I bent over him. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly.
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