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Her mother was a goddess to her all through her
youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and
wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as
if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very
dead. She waited
for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Cosette sat under the table, still as a
mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and,
on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys
was collected in the yard. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. You are in danger. "My own father!"
Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a
series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. Then the incredible happened.
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This video was uploaded to m.damaulifm.org on 05-07-2024 20:11:59