Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. "Yes, Auntie! And to date you have cost me precisely sixteen thousand dollars— hard earned, every one of them. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. "Yes?" "And that when they give their word, they never break it. Perhaps she was.
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