Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. If you live, well and good; if you die, well and good. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce.
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