He had never wanted daughters. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. We can be friends again. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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