CHAPTER XI. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. "We're forgetting," he said. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. Here, it might be anything at all. "Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin.
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