Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. Very dark, like yours, ma’am. Nor can we. “Number 13, please, cabman. Sorry.
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