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　　"And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?"

　　"What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?"

　　"Gone!" she cried; "he has gone to get Cosette."

　　At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, "Pardieu! who compels me to this?" Then he wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night taper of invalids, the corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued.

　　But an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few days before, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse.

　　All this serenity had been traversed by but a single word of haughty pity; perceiving on his left, at a spot where there now stands a large tomb, those admirable Scotch Grays, with their superb horses, massing themselves, he said, "It is a pity."

　　Wellington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.

　　She bent down and discovered Cosette cowering at the other end of the table, almost under the drinkers' feet.

　　Above the door it said, "Number 50"; the inside replied, "no, Number 52."

　　On soil where an imprint of the track may be left, this manoeuvre possesses, among other advantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwing them on the wrong scent.

　　And the galleys now meant not only the galleys, but Cosette lost to him forever; that is to say, a life resembling the interior of a tomb.

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