Brendon. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. There it was—to be borrowed. On that first occasion, the delay in locating the entrance to the secret passage meant that she had to wait until morning to make her search.
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