Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. It’s—it’s a serious prohibition. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.
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