Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. ’ The lady hesitated a moment, her eyes seeming to measure the distance between where he stood and the door. Michelle looked at her pathetically.
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