Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident.
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