Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.
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