Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. Her patience was waning fast. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. She directed the orchestra to tune again. The service began. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet.
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