“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. ‘Don’t lose your temper again. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. What about that?" "It means that drink cheats a man into telling things he ought not to.
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