“There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. "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. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years.
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