Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Each time also we quarrel, and even if you are laughing very much, you become angry. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. She could feel her face turning beet red. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.
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