Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain.
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