” He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. She might even forgive him.
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