‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. “Stop! Don’t put your face there.
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