My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. ‘I have no idea. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness.
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