Already Cosette was her chosen friend. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Both started. She let out a wail. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. “Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully. She always dawdled, so it was easy. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.
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