She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story.
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