” “Where is your husband?” Anna asked. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. I can see that you were somebody, in another day. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son.
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