Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Mr. "Never, Ma'am!" echoed Mr. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. . “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different. 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.
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