I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. " "It is a diamond," said the lady, in an agony of distress,—"the child!" "A diamond! Here, take the kid," cried Blueskin, slipping the infant adroitly under her scarf. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.
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